S.  EDWIN  CORLE,  JR. 
His  Book 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 

PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


THE  REDHEADED  OUTFIELD 
AND   OTHER  BASEBALL   STORIES 


THE 

REDHEADED 
OUTFIELD 

AND 

OTHER  BASEBALL  STORIES 


BY 

2ANE  GREY 

Awflwr  of 

TffK  SHORT-STOP,   WILDFIRB, 
TEDS  U.  P.  TRAIL,  ETC. 


GROSSET   &   DFNLAP 

PUBLISHERS        NEW    T O R K 


COPYRIGHT,  1915,  BY 
McCmRE  NEWSPAPER  SYNDICATE 

COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
GROSSET  & 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

TBS  REDHEADED  OUTFIELD    1 

THE  RUBE   25 

THE  RUBE'S  PENNANT  47 

THE  RUBE'S  HONEYMOON  89 

THE  RUBE'S  WATERLOO 93 

BREAKING  INTO  FAST  COMPANY  115 

THE  KNOCKER 135 

THE  WINNING  BALL  159 

FALSE  COLORS  177 

THE  MANAGER  OF  MADDEN 's  HELL 197 

OLD  WELL-WELL  .  223 


2036i 


THE  REDHEADED  OUTFIELD 
AND   OTHER  BASEBALL   STORIES 


THE   REDHEADED  OUTFIELD 


THERE  was  Delaney's  red-haired  trio — Red  Gil- 
bat,  left  fielder ;  Reddy  Clanrmer,  right  fielder,  and 
Reddie  Ray,  center  fielder,  composing  the  most 
remarkable  outfield  ever  developed  in  minor 
league  baseball.  It  was  Delaney's  pride,  as  it  was 
also  his  tronble. 

Red  Gilbat  was  nutty — and  his  batting  average 
was  .371.  Any  student  of  baseball  conld  weigh 
these  two  facts  against  each  other  and  understand 
something  of  Delaney's  trouble.  It  was  not  pos- 
sible to  camp  on  Red  Gilbat  's  trail.  The  man  was 
a  jack-o'-lantern,  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  a  weird,  long- 
legged,  long-armed,  red-haired  illusive  phantom. 
When  the  gong  rang  at  the  ball  grounds  there 
were  ten  chances  to  one  that  Red  would  not  be 
present.  He  had  been  discovered  with  small  boys 
peeping  through  knotholes  at  the  vacant  left  field 
he  was  supposed  to  inhabit  during  play. 

Of  course  what  Red  did  off  the  ball  grounds 
was  not  so  important  as  what  he  did  on.  And 
there  was  absolutely  no  telling  what  under  the  sun 
1 


2          THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

he  might  do  then  except  once  out  of  every  three 
times  at  bat  he  could  be  counted  on  to  knock  the 
cover  off  the  ball. 

Eeddy  Clammer  was  a  grand-stand  player — the 
kind  all  managers  hated — and  he  was  hitting  .305. 
He  made  circus  catches,  circus  stops,  circus 
throws,  circus  steals — but  particularly  circus 
catches.  That  is  to  say,  he  made  easy  plays  ap- 
pear difficult.  He  was  always  strutting,  posing, 
talking,  arguing,  quarreling — when  he  was  not 
engaged  in  making  a  grand-stand  play.  Eeddy 
Clammer  used  every  possible  incident  and  artifice 
to  bring  himself  into  the  limelight. 

Eeddie  Eay  had  been  the  intercollegiate  cham- 
pion in  the  sprints  and  a  famous  college  ball 
player.  After  a  few  months  of  professional  ball 
he  was  hitting  over  .400  and  leading  the  league 
both  at  bat  and  on  tEe  bases.  It  was  a  beautiful 
and  a  thrilling  sight  to  see  him  run.  He  was  so 
quick  to  start,  so  marvelously  swift,  so  keen  of 
judgment,  that  neither  Delaney  nor  any  player 
could  ever  tell  the  hit  that  he  was  not  going  to 
get.  That  was  why  Eeddie  Eay  was  a  whole  game 
in  himself. 

Delaney 's  Eochester  Stars  and  the  Providence 
Grays  were  tied  for  first  place.  Of  the  present 
series  each  team  had  won  a  game.  Eivalry  Had 
always  been  keen,  and  as  the  teams  were  about 
to  enter  the  long  homestretch  for  the  pennant 
there  was  battle  in  the  New  England  air. 


THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD  3 

The  September  day  was  perfect.  The  stands 
were  half  full  and  the  bleachers  packed  with  a 
white-sleeved  mass.  And  the  field  was  beautifully 
level  and  green.  The  Grays  were  practicing  and 
the  Stars  were  on  their  bench. 

"We're  up  against  it,"  Delaney  was  saying. 
"This  new  umpire,  Fuller,  hasn't  got  it  in  for  us. 
Oh,  no,  not  at  all!  Believe  me,  he's  a  robber. 
But  Scott  is  pitchin'  well.  Won  his  last  three 
games.  He'll  bother  'em.  And  the  three  Reds 
have  broken  loose.  They're  on  the  rampage. 
They'll  burn  up  this  place  today." 

Somebody  noted  the  absence  of  Gilbat. 

Delaney  gave  a  sudden  start.  "Why,  Gil  was 
here,"  he  said  slowly.  "Lord! — he's  about  due 
for  a  nutty  stunt." 

Whereupon  Delaney  sent  boys  and  players 
scurrying  about  to  find  Gilbat,  and  Delaney  went 
himself  to  ask  the  Providence  manager  to  hold 
back  the  gong  for  a  few  minutes. 

Presently  somebody  brought  Delaney  a  tele- 
phone message  that  Red  Gilbat  was  playing  ball 
with  some  boys  in  a  lot  four  blocks  down  the 
street.  When  at  length  a  couple  of  players 
marched  up  to  the  bench  with  Red  in  tow  Delaney 
uttered  an  immense  sigh  of  relief  and  then,  after 
a  close  scrutiny  of  Red's  face,  he  whispered, 
"Lock  the  gates'!" 

Then  the  gong  rang.  The  Grays  trooped  in. 
The  Stars  ran  out,  except  Gilbat,  who  ambled  like 


4  THE   EEDHEADED    OUTFIELD 

a  giraffe.  The  hum  of  conversation  in  the  grand 
stand  quickened  for  a  moment  with  the  scraping 
of  chairs,  and  then  grew  qniet.  The  bleachers 
sent  up  the  rollicking  cry  of  expectancy.  The 
umpire  threw  out  a  white  ball  with  his  stentorian 
"Play!"  and  Blake  of  the  Grays  strode  to  the 
plate. 

Hitting  safely,  he  started  the  game  with  a  rush. 
With  Dorr  up,  the  Star  infield  played  for  a  bunt. 
Like  clockwork  Dorr  dumped  the  first  ball  as 
Blake  got  his  flying  start  for  second  base.  Morris- 
sey  tore  in  for  the  ball,  got  it  on  the  run  and 
snapped  it  underhand  to  Healy,  beating  the 
runner  by  an  inch.  The  fast  Blake,  with  a  long 
slide,  made  third  base.  The  stands  stamped.  The 
bleachers  howled.  "White,  next  man  up,  batted  a 
high  fly  to  left  field.  This  was  a  sun  field  and 
the  hardest  to  play  in  the  league.  Bed  Gilbat  was 
the  only  man  who  ever  played  it  well.  He  judged 
the  fly,  waited  under  it,  took  a  step  back,  then 
forward,  and  deliberately  caught  the  ball  in  his' 
gloved  hand.  A  throw-in  to  catch  the  runner  scor- 
ing from  third  base  would  have  been  futile,  but 
it  was  not  like  Bed  Gilbat  to  fail  to  try.  He  tossed 
the  ball  to  O'Brien.  And  Blake  scored  amid 
applause. 

"What  do  you  know  about  that?"  ejaculated 
Delaney,  wiping  his  moist  face.  "I  never  be- 
fore saw  pur  nutty  Bedhead  pull  off  a  play  like 
that." 


THE   EEDHEADED    OUTFIELD  5 

Some  of  the  players  yelled  at  Red,  "This  is  a 
two-handed  league,  yon  bat!" 

The  first  five  players  on  the  list  for  the  Grays 
were  left-handed  batters,  and  against  a  right- 
handed  pitcher  whose  most  effective  ball  for  them 
was  a  high  fast  one  over  the  outer  corner  they 
would  naturally  hit  toward  left  field.  It  was  no 
surprise  to  see  Hanley  bat  a  skyscraper  out  to  left. 
Bed  had  to  run  to  get  under  it.  He  braced  him- 
self rather  unusually  for  a  fielder.  He  tried  to 
catch  the  ball  in  his  bare  right  hand  and  muffed  it. 
Hanley  got  to  second  on  the  play  while  the  audi- 
ence roared.  When  they  got  through  there  was 
some  roaring  among  the  Rochester  players.  Scott 
and  Captain  Healy  roared  at  Red,  and  Red  roared 
back  at  them. 

"  It 's  all  off.  Red  never  did  that  before, ' '  cried 
Delaney  in  despair.  "He's  gone  clean  bughouse 
now." 

Babcock  was  the  next  man  up  and  he  likewise 
hit  to  left.  It  was  a  low,  twisting  ball — half  fly, 
half  liner — and  a  difficult  one  to  field.  Gilbat  ran 
with  great  bounds,  and  though  he  might  have  got 
two  hands  on  the  ball  he  did  not  try,  but  this  time 
caught  it  in  his  right,  retiring  the  side. 

The  Stars  trotted  in,  Scott  and  Healy  and  Kane, 
all  veterans,  looking  like  thunderclouds.  Red 
ambled  in  the  last  and  he  seemed  very  nonchalant. 

"By  Gosh,  I'd  'a'  ketched  that  one  I  muffed 
if  I'd  had  time  to  change  hands,"  he  said  with  a 


6          THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

grin,  and  he  exposed  a  handful  of  peanuts.  He 
had  refused  to  drop  the  peanuts  to  make  the 
catch  with  two  hands.  That  explained  the  mys- 
tery. It  was  funny,  yet  nobody  laughed.  There 
was  that  run  chalked  up  against  the  Stars,  and 
this  game  had  to  be  won. 

"Red,  I — I  want  to  take  the  team  home  in  the 
lead,"  said  Delaney,  and  it  was  plain  that  he  sup- 
pressed strong  feeling.  "You  didn't  play  the 
game,  you  know." 

Red  appeared  mightily  ashamed. 

"Del,  I'll  git  that  run  back,"  he  said. 

Then  he  strode  to  the  plate,  swinging  his  wagon- 
tongue  bat.  For  all  his  awkward  position  in  the 
box  he  looked  what  he  was — a  formidable  hitter. 
He  seemed  to  tower  over  the  pitcher — Red  was 
six  feet  one — and  he  scowled  and  shook  his  bat 
at  Wehying  and  called,  "Put  one  over — you 
Wienerwurst ! "  Wehying  was  anything  but  red- 
headed, and  he  wasted  so  many  balls  on  Red  that 
it  looked  as  if  he  might  pass  him.  He  would  have 
passed  him,  too,  if  Red  had  not  stepped  over  on 
the  fourth  ball  and  swung  on  it.  White  at  second 
base  leaped  high  for  the  stinging  hit,  and  failed 
to  reach  it.  The  ball  struck  and  bounded  for  the 
fence.  When  Babcock  fielded  it  in,  Red  was  stand- 
ing on  third  base,  and  the  bleachers  groaned. 

Whereupon  Chesty  Reddy  Clammer  proceeded 
to  draw  attention  to  himself,  and  incidentally  de- 
lay the  game,  by  assorting  the  bats  as  if  the  audi- 


THE   REDHEADED    OUTFIELD  7 

ence  and  the  game  might  gladly  wait  years  to  see 
him  make  a  choice. 

"Git  in  the  game!"  yelled  Delaney. 

"Aw,  take  my  bat,  Duke  of  the  Abrubsky !"  sar- 
castically said  Dump  Kane.  When  the  grouchy 
Kane  offered  to  lend  his  bat  matters  were  critical 
in  the  Star  camp. 

Other  retorts  followed,  which  Beddy  Clammer 
deigned  not  to  notice.  At  last  he  got  a  bat  that 
suited  him — and  then,  importantly,  dramatically, 
with  his  cap  jauntily  riding  his  red  locks,  he 
marched  to  the  plate. 

Some  wag  in  the  bleachers  yelled  into  the 
silence,  "Oh,  Maggie,  your  lover  has  come!" 

Not  improbably  Clammer  was  thinking  first  of 
his  presence  before  the  multitude,  secondly  of  his 
batting  average  and  thirdly  of  the  run  to  be 
scored.  In  this  instance  he  waited  and  feinted  at 
balls  and  fouled  strikes  at  length  to  work  his  base. 
When  he  got  to  first  base  suddenly  he  bolted  for 
second,  and  in  the  surprise  of  the  unlooked-for 
play  he  made  it  by  a  spread-eagle  slide.  It  was  a 
circus  steal. 

Delaney  snorted.  Then  the  look  of  profound 
disgust  vanished  in  a  flash  of  light.  His  huge  face 
beamed. 

Reddie  Ray  was  striding  to  the  plate. 

There  was  something  about  Reddie  Ray  that 
pleased  all  the  senses.  His  lithe  form  seemed  in- 
stinct with  life;  any  sudden  movement  was  sug- 


8          THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

gestive  of  stored  lightning.  His  position  at  the 
plate  was  on  the  left  side,  and  he  stood  perfectly 
motionless,  with  just  a  hint  of  tense  waiting  alert- 
ness. Dorr,  Blake  and  Babcock,  the  outfielders 
for  the  Grays,  trotted  round  to  the  right  of  their 
usual  position.  Delaney  smiled  derisively,  as  if 
he  knew  how  futile  it  was  to  tell  what  field  Eeddie 
Eay  might  hit  into.  Wehying,  the  old  fox,  warily 
eyed  the  youngster,  and  threw  him  a  high  curve, 
close  in.  It  grazed  Reddie 's  shirt,  but  he  never 
moved  a  hair.  Then  Wehying,  after  the  manner 
of  many  veteran  pitchers  when  trying  out  a  new 
and  menacing  batter,  drove  a  straight  fast  ball  at 
Reddie 's  head.  Reddie  ducked,  neither  too  slow 
nor  too  quick,  just  right  to  show  what  an  eye  he 
had,  how  hard  it  was  to  pitch  to.  The  next  was 
a  strike.  And  on  the  next  he  appeared  to  step 
and  swing  in  one  action.  There  was  a  ringing 
rap,  and  the  ball  shot  toward  right,  curving  down, 
a  vicious,  headed  hit.  Mallory,  at  first  base, 
snatched  at  it  and  found  only  the  air.  Babcock 
had  only  time  to  take  a  few  sharp  steps,  and  then 
he  plunged  down,  blocked  the  hit  and  fought  the 
twisting  ball.  Reddie  turned  first  base,  flitted  on 
toward  second,  went  headlong  in  the  dust,  and 
shot  to  the  base  before  White  got  the  throw-in 
from  Babcock.  Then,  as  White  wheeled  and  lined 
the  ball  home  to  catch  the  scoring  Clammer, 
Reddie  Ray  leaped  up,  got  his  sprinter's  start 
and,  like  a  rocket,  was  off  for  third.  This  time 


THE   REDHEADED    OUTFIELD  9 

he  dove  behind  the  base,  sliding  in  a  half  circle, 
and  as  Hanley  caught  Strickland's  perfect  throw 
and  whirled  with  the  ball,  Eeddie's  hand  slid  to 
the  bag. 

Eeddie  got  to  his  feet  amid  a  rather  breathless 
silence.  Even  the  coachers  were  quiet.  There 
was  a  moment  of  relaxation,  then  "Wehying  re- 
ceived the  ball  from  Hanley  and  faced  the 
batter. 

This  was  Dnmp  Kane.  There  was  a  sign  of 
some  kind,  almost  imperceptible,  between  Kane 
and  Reddie.  As  Wehying  half  turned  in  his  swing 
to  pitch,  Reddie  Ray  bounded  homeward.  It  was 
not  so  much  the  boldness  of  his  action  as  the 
amazing  swiftness  of  it  that  held  the  audience 
spellbound.  Like  a  thunderbolt  Reddie  came 
down  the  line,  almost  beating  Wehying 's  pitch  to 
the  plate.  But  Kane's  bat  intercepted  the  ball, 
laying  it  down,  and  Reddie  scored  without  sliding. 
Dorr,  by  sharp  work,  just  managed  to  throw  Kane 
out. 

Three  runs  so  quick  it  was  hard  to  tell  how  they 
had  come.  Not  in  the  major  league  could  there 
have  been  faster  work.  And  the  ball  had  been 
fielded  perfectly  and  thrown  perfectly. 

"There  you  are,"  said  Delaney,  hoarsely. 
"Can  you  beat  it?  If  you've  been  wonderin*  how 
the  cripped  Stars  won  so  many  games  just  put 
what  you've  seen  in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it.  Red 
Gilbat  gets  on — Reddy  Clammer  gets  on — and 


10         THE   REDHEADED    OUTFIELD 

then  Reddie  Eay  drives  them  home  or  chases  them 
home. " 

The  game  went  on,  and  though  it  did  not  exactly 
drag  it  slowed  down  considerably.  Morrissey  and 
Healy  were  retired  on  infield  plays.  And  the  sides 
changed.  For  the  Grays,  O'Brien  made  a  scratch' 
hit,  went  to  second  on  Strickland's  sacrifice,  stole 
third  and  scored  on  Mallory's  infield  out.  Weh- 
ying  missed  three  strikes.  In  the  Stars '  turn  the 
three  end  players  on  the  batting  list  were  easily 
disposed  of.  In  the  third  inning  the  clever  Blake, 
aided  by  a  base  on  balls  and  a  hit  following,  tied 
the  score,  and  once  more  struck  fire  and  brimstone 
from  the  impatient  bleachers.  Providence  was  a 
town  that  had  to  have  its  team  win. 

' '  Git  at  'em,  Beds ! ' '  said  Delaney  gruffly. 

''Batter  up!"  called  Umpire  Fuller,  sharply. 

"Where's  Red?  Where's  the  bug?  Where's 
the  nut?  Delaney,  did  you  lock  the  gates?  Look 
under  the  bench!"  These  and  other  remarks,  not 
exactly  elegant,  attested  to  the  mental  processes 
of  some  of  the  Stars.  Red  Gilbat  did  not  appear] 
to  be  forthcoming.  There  was  an  anxious  delay. 
Capt.  Healy  searched  for  the  missing  player.  De-> 
laney  did  not  say  any  more. 

Suddenly  a  door  under  the  grand  stand  opened 
and  Red  Gilbat  appeared.  He  hurried  for  his  bat 
and  then  up  to  the  plate.  And  he  never  offered 
to  hit  one  of  the  balls  Wehying  shot  over.  When 


THE   KEDHEADED    OUTFIELD         11 

Fuller  had  called  the  third  strike  Red  hurried 
back  to  the  door  and  disappeared. 

* '  Somethin '  doin ', ' '  whispered  Delaney. 

Lord  Chesterfield  Clammer  paraded  to  the 
batter's  box  and,  after  gradually  surveying  the 
field,  as  if  picking  out  the  exact  place  he  meant  to 
drive  the  ball,  he  stepped  to  the  plate.  Then  a 
roar  from  the  bleachers  surprised  him. 

"Well,  I'll  be  dog-goned!"  exclaimed  Delaney. 
"Red  stole  that  sure  as  shootin'." 

Red  Gilbat  was  pushing  a  brand-new  baby  car- 
riage toward  the  batter 's  box.  There  was  a  titter- 
ing in  the  grand  stand;  another  roar  from  the 
bleachers.  Clammer 's  face  turned  as  red  as  his 
hair.  Gilbat  shoved  the  baby  carriage  upon  the 
plate,  spread  wide  his  long  arms,  made  a  short 
presentation  speech  and  an  elaborate  bow,  then 
backed  away. 

All  eyes  were  centered  on  Clammer.  If  he  had 
taken  it  right  the  incident  might  have  passed  with- 
out undue  hilarity.  But  Clammer  became  abso- 
lutely wild  with  rage.  It  was  well  known  that 
he  was  unmarried.  Equally  well  was  it  seen  that 
Gilbat  had  executed  one  of  his  famous  tricks. 
Ball  players  were  inclined  to  be  dignified  about 
the  presentation  of  gifts  upon  the  field,  and 
Clammer,  the  dude,  the  swell,  the  lady's  man,  the 
favorite  of  the  baseball  gods — in  his  own  estima- 
tion— so  far  lost  control  of  himself  that  he  threw 
his  bat  at  his  retreating  tormentor.  Red  jumped 


12         THE   REDHEADED    OUTFIELD 

high  and  the  bat  skipped  along  the  ground  toward 
the  bench.  The  players  sidestepped  and  leaped 
and,  of  course,  the  bat  cracked  one  of  Delaney's 
big  shins.  His  eyes  popped  with  pain,  but  he 
could  not  stop  laughing.  One  by  one  the  players 
lay  down  and  rolled  over  and  yelled.  The  su- 
perior Clammer  was  not  overliked  by  his  co- 
players. 

From  the  grand  stand  floated  the  laughter  of 
ladies  and  gentlemen.  And  from  the  bleachers — 
that  throne  of  the  biting,  ironic,  scornful  fans — 
pealed  up  a  howl  of  delight.  It  lasted  for  a  full 
minute.  Then,  as  quiet  ensued,  some  boy  blew  a 
blast  of  one  of  those  infernal  little  instruments  of 
pipe  and  rubber  balloon,  and  over  the  field  wailed 
out  a  shrill,  high-keyed  cry,  an  excellent  imitation 
of  a  baby.  "Whereupon  the  whole  audience  roared, 
and  in  discomfiture  Reddy  Clammer  went  in 
search  of  his  bat. 

To  make  his  chagrin  all  the  worse  he  inglori- 
ously  struck  out.  And  then  he  strode  away  under 
the  lea  of  the  grand-stand  wall  toward  right  field. 

Reddie  Ray  went  to  bat  and,  with  the  infield 
playing  deep  and  the  outfield  swung  still  farther 
round  to  the  right,  he  bunted  a  little  teasing  ball 
down  the  third-base  line.  Like  a  flash  of  light 
he  had  crossed  first  base  before  Hanley  got  his 
hands  on  the  ball.  Then  Kane  hit  into  second 
base,  forcing  Reddie  out. 

Again  the  game  assumed  less  spectacular  and 


THE   EEDHEADED    OUTFIELD         13 

more  ordinary  play.  Both  Scott  and  Wehying 
held  the  batters  safely  and  allowed  no  runs.  But 
in  the  fifth  inning,  with  the  Stars  at  bat  and  two 
out,  Bed  Gilbat  again  electrified  the  field.  He 
sprang  up  from  somewhere  and  walked  to  the 
plate,  his  long  shape  enfolded  in  a  full-length  linen 
duster.  The  color  and  style  of  this  garment 
might  not  have  been  especially  striking,  but  upon 
Bed  it  had  a  weird  and  wonderful  effect.  Evi- 
dently Bed  intended  to  bat  while  arrayed  in  his 
long  coat,  for  he  stepped  into  the  box  and  faced 
the  pitcher.  Capt.  Healy  yelled  for  him  to  take 
the  duster  off.  Likewise  did  the  Grays  yell. 

The  bleachers  shrieked  their  disapproval.  To 
say  the  least,  Bed  Gilbat  'a  crazy  assurance  was 
dampening  to  the  ardor  of  the  most  blindly  con- 
fident fans.  At  length  Umpire  Fuller  waved  his 
hand,  enjoining  silence  and  calling  time. 

"Take  it  off  or  I'll  fine  you." 

From  his  lofty  height  Gilbat  gazed  down  upon 
the  little  umpire,  and  it  was  plain  what  he  thought. 

"What  do  I  care  for  money!"  replied  Bed. 

"That  costs  you  twenty-five,"  said  Fuller. 

'  *  Cigarette  change ! ' '  yelled  Bed. 

"Costs  you  fifty." 

"Bah!    Go  to  an  eye  doctor,"  roared  Bed. 

"Seventy-five,"  added  Fuller,  imperturbably. 

"Make  it  a  hundred!" 

"It's  two  hundred." 

"Rob-b-ler!"  bawled  Bed. 


14         THE   EEDHEADED    OUTFIELD 

Fuller  showed  willingness  to  overlook  Bed's 
back  talk  as  well  as  costume,  and  he  called, 
"Play!" 

There  was  a  mounting  sensation  of  prophetic 
certainty.  Old  fox  Wehying  appeared  nervous. 
He  wasted  two  balls  on  Eed ;  then  he  put  one  over 
the  plate,  and  then  he  wasted  another.  Three 
balls  and  one  strike !  That  was  a  bad  place  for  a 
pitcher,  and  with  Eed  Gilbat  up  it  was  worse. 
Wehying  swung  longer  and  harder  to  get  all  his 
left  behind  the  throw  and  let  drive.  Eed  lunged 
and  cracked  the  ball.  It  went  up  and  up  and  kept 
going  up  and  farther  out,  and  as  the  murmuring 
audience  was  slowly  transfixed  into  late  realiza- 
tion the  ball  soared  to  its  height  and  dropped 
beyond  the  left-field  fence.  A  home  run ! 

Eed  Gilbat  gathered  up  the  tails  of  his  duster, 
after  the  manner  of  a  neat  woman  crossing  a 
muddy  street,  and  ambled  down  to  first  base  and 
on  to  second,  making  prodigious  jumps  upon  the 
bags,  and  round  third,  to  come  down  the  home- 
stretch wagging  his  red  head.  Then  he  stood  on 
the  plate,  and,  as  if  to  exact  revenge  from  the 
audience  for  the  fun  they  made  of  him,  he  threw 
back  his  shoulders  and  bellowed:  "Haw!  Haw! 
Haw!}t 

Not  a  handclap  greeted  him,  but  some  mindless, 
exceedingly  adventurous  fan  yelled:  "Bedhead! 
Bedhead!  Bedhead!" 

That  was  the  one  thing  calculated  to  rouse  Bed 


THE   BEDHEADED    OUTFIELD         15 

Gilbat.  He  seemed  to  flare,  to  bristle,  and  he 
paced  for  the  bleachers. 

Delaney  looked  as  if  he  might  have  a  stroke. 
"Grab  him!  Soak  him  with  a  bat!  Somebody 
grab  him!" 

But  none  of  the  Stars  was  risking  so  much,  and 
Gilbat,  to  the  howling  derision  of  the  gleeful  fans, 
reached  the  bleachers.  He  stretched  his  long 
arms  up  to  the  fence  and  prepared  to  vault  over. 
" Where's  the  guy  who  called  me  redhead? "  he 
yelled. 

That  was  heaping  fuel  on  the  fire.  From  all 
over  the  bleachers,  from  everywhere,  came  the  ob- 
noxious word.  Red  heaved  himself  over  the 
fence  and  piled  into  the  fans.  Then  followed  the 
roar  of  many  voices,  the  tramping  of  many  feet, 
the  pressing  forward  of  line  after  line  of  shirt- 
sleeved  men  and  boys.  That  bleacher  stand  sud- 
denly assumed  the  maelstrom  appearance  of  a 
surging  mob  round  an  agitated  center.  In  a  mo- 
ment all  the  players  rushed  down  the  field,  and 
confusion  reigned. 

"Oh!    Oh!    Oh !"  moaned  Delaney. 

However,  the  game  had  to  go  on.  Delaney,  no 
doubt,  felt  all  was  over.  Nevertheless  there  were 
games  occasionally  that  seemed  an  unending 
series  of  unprecedented  events.  This  one  had  be- 
gun admirably  to  break  a  record.  And  the  Provi- 
dence fans,  like  all  other  fans,  had  cultivated  an 
appetite  as  the  game  proceeded.  They  were  wild 


16         THE   EEDHEADED    OUTFIELD 

to  put  the  other  redheads  out  of  the  field  or  at 
least  out  for  the  inning,  wild  to  tie  the  score,  wild 
to  win  and  wilder  than  all  for  more  excitement. 
Clammer  hit  safely.  But  when  Eeddie  Ray  lined 
to  the  second  baseman,  Clammer,  having  taken  a 
lead,  was  doubled  up  in  the  play. 

Of  course,  the  sixth  inning  opened  with  the 
Stars  playing  only  eight  men.  There  was  another 
delay.  Probably  everybody  except  Delaney  and 
perhaps  Healy  had  forgotten  the  Stars  were  short 
a  man.  Fuller  called  time.  The  impatient  bleach- 
ers barked  for  action. 

Capt.  White  came  over  to  Delaney  and  courte- 
ously offered  to  lend  a  player  for  the  remaining 
innings.  Then  a  pompous  individual  came  out  of 
the  door  leading  from  the  press  boxes — he  was 
a  director  Delaney  disliked. 

"Guess  you'd  better  let  Fuller  call  the  game," 
he  said  brusquely. 

"If  you  want  to — as  the  score  stands  now  in 
our  favor,"  replied  Delaney. 

"Not  on  your  life!  It'll  be  ours  or  else  we'll 
play  it  out  and  beat  you  to  death." 

He  departed  in  high  dudgeon. 

"Tell  Eeddie  to  swing  over  a  little  toward 
left,"  was  Delaney 's  order  to  Healy.  Fire 
gleamed  in  the  manager's  eye. 

Fuller  called  play  then,  with  Eeddy  Clammer 
and  Eeddie  Eay  composing  the  Star  outfield.  And 
the  Grays  evidently  prepared  to  do  great  execu- 


THE   KEDHEADED   OUTFIELD         17 

tion  through  the  wide  lanes  tlras  opened  up.  At 
that  stage  it  would  not  have  been  like  matured 
ball  players  to  try  to  crop  hits  down  into  the 
infield. 

White  sent  a  long  fly  back  of  Clammer.  Eeddy 
had  no  time  to  loaf  on  this  hit.  It  was  all  he  could 
do  to  reach  it  and  he  made  a  splendid  catch,  for 
which  the  crowd  roundly  applauded  him.  That 
applause  was  wine  to  Beddy  Clammer.  He  began 
to  prance  on  his  toes  and  sing  out  to  Scott :  "Make 
'em  hit  to  me,  old  man!  Make  'em  hit  to  me!" 
Whether  Scott  desired  that  or  not  was  scarcely 
possible  to  say;  at  any  rate,  Hanley  pounded  a 
hit  through  the  infield.  And  Clammer,  prancing 
high  in  the  air  like  a  check-reined  horse,  ran  to 
intercept  the  ball.  He  could  have  received  it  in 
his  hands,  but  that  would  never  have  served 
Beddy  Clammer.  He  timed  the  hit  to  a  nicety, 
went  down  with  his  old  grand- stand  play  and 
blocked  the  ball  with  his  anatomy.  Delaney 
swore.  And  the  bleachers,  now  warm  toward  the 
gallant  outfielder,  lustily  cheered  him.  Babcock 
hit  down  the  right-field  foul  line,  giving  Clammer 
a  long  run.  Hanley  was  scoring  and  Babcock  was 
sprinting  for  third  base  when  Beddy  got  the  ball. 
He  had  a  fine  arm  and  he  made  a  hard  and  accu- 
rate throw,  catching  his  man  in  a  close  play. 

Perhaps  even  Delaney  could  not  have  found  any 
fault  with  that  play.  But  the  aftermath  spoiled 
the  thing.  Clammer  now  rode  the  air ;  he  soared ; 


18         THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

he  was  in  the  clouds ;  it  was  his  inning  and  he  had 
utterly  forgotten  his  team  mates,  except  inasmuch 
as  they  were  performing  mere  little  automatic 
movements  to  direct  the  great  machinery  in  his 
direction  for  his  sole  achievement  and  glory. 

There  is  fate  in  baseball  as  well  as  in  other 
walks  of  life.  0  'Brien  was  a  strapping  fellow  and 
he  lifted  another  ball  into  Clammer 's  wide  terri- 
tory. The  hit  was  of  the  high  and  far-away 
variety.  Clammer  started  to  run  with  it,  not  like 
a  grim  outfielder,  but  like  one  thinking  of  him- 
self, his  style,  his  opportunity,  his  inevitable  suc- 
cess. Certain  it  was  that  in  thinking  of  himself 
the  outfielder  forgot  his  surroundings.  He  ran 
across  the  foul  line,  head  up,  hair  flying,  unheed- 
ing the  warning  cry  from  Healy.  And,  reaching 
up  to  make  his  crowning  circus  play,  he  smashed 
face  forward  into  the  bleachers  fence.  Then, 
limp  as  a  rag,  he  dropped.  The  audience  sent 
forth  a  long  groan  of  sympathy. 

"That  wasn't  one  of  his  stage  falls,"  said  De- 
laney.  "I'll  bet  he's  dead.  .  .  .  Poor  Reddy! 
And  I  want  him  to  bust  his  face!" 

Clammer  was  carried  off  the  field  into  the  dress- 
ing room  and  a  physician  was  summoned  out  of 
the  audience. 

"Cap.,  what'd  it— do  to  him?"  asked  Delaney. 

"Aw,  spoiled  his  pretty  mug,  that's  all,"  re- 
plied Healy,  scornfully.  "Mebee  he'll  listen  to 


THE   REDHEADED    OUTFIELD         19 

Delaney's  change  was  characteristic  of  the  man. 
"Well,  if  it  didn't  kill  him  I'm  blamed  glad  he  got 
it.  ...  Cap,  we  can  trim  'em  yet.  Reddie  Ray '11 
play  the  whole  outfield.  Give  Reddie  a  chance  to 
run !  Tell  the  boy  to  cut  loose.  And  all  of  you  git 
in  the  game.  Win  or  lose,  I  won't  forget  it.  I've 
a  hunch.  Once  in  a  while  I  can  tell  what's  comin' 
off.  Some  queer  game  this!  And  we're  goin*  to 
win.  Gilbat  lost  the  game;  Clammer  throwed  it 
away  again,  and  now  Reddie  Ray's  due  to  win 
it.  .  .  .I'm  all  in,  but  I  wouldn't  miss  the  finish 
to  save  my  life. ' ' 

Delaney's  deep  presaging  sense  of  baseball 
events  was  never  put  to  a  greater  test.  And  the 
seven  Stars,  with  the  score  tied,  exhibited  the 
temper  and  timber  of  a  championship  team  in  the 
last  ditch.  It  was  so  splendid  that  almost  in- 
stantly it  caught  the  antagonistic  bleachers. 

Wherever  the  tired  Scott  found  renewed 
strength  and  speed  was  a  mystery.  But  he  struck 
out  the  hard-hitting  Providence  catcher  and  that 
made  the  third  out.  The  Stars  could  not  score  in 
their  half  of  the  inning.  Likewise  the  seventh 
inning  passed  without  a  run  for  either  side ;  only 
the  infield  work  of  the  Stars  was  something 
superb.  When  the  eighth  inning  ended,  without  a 
tally  for  either  team,  the  excitement  grew  tense. 
There  was  Reddy  Ray  playing  outfield  alone,  and 
the  Grays  with  all  their  desperate  endeavors  had 
not  lifted  the  ball  out  of  the  infield. 


20         THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

But  in  the  ninth,  Blake,  the  first  man  up,  lined 
low  toward  right  center.  The  hit  was  safe  and 
looked  good  for  three  bases.  No  one  looking,  how- 
ever, had  calculated  on  Beddie's  Bay's  fleetness. 
He  covered  ground  and  dove  for  the  bounding 
ball  and  knocked  it  down.  Blake  did  not  get  be- 
yond first  base.  The  crowd  cheered  the  play 
equally  with  the  prospect  of  a  run.  Dorr  bunted 
and  beat  the  throw.  White  hit  one  of  the  high 
fast  balls  Scott  was  serving  and  sent  it  close  to 
the  left-field  foul  line.  The  running  Eeddie  Eay 
made  on  that  play  held  White  at  second  base.  But 
two  runs  had  scored  with  no  one  out. 

Hanley,  the  fourth  left-handed  hitter,  came  up 
and  Scott  pitched  to  him  as  he  had  to  the  others 
— high  fast  balls  over  the  inside  corner  of  the 
plate.  Eeddy  Bay's  position  was  some  fifty  yards 
behind  deep  short,  and  a  little  toward  center  field. 
He  stood  sideways,  facing  two-thirds  of  that 
vacant  outfield.  In  spite  of  Scott's  skill,  Hanley 
swung  the  ball  far  round  into  right  field,  but  he 
hit  it  high,  and  almost  before  he  actually  hit  it  the 
great  sprinter  was  speeding  across  the  green. 

The  suspence  grew  almost  unbearable  as  the 
ball  soared  in  its  parabolic  flight  and  the  red- 
haired  runner  streaked  dark  across  the  green. 
The  ball  seemed  never  to  be  coming  down.  And 
when  it  began  to  descend  and  reached  a  point  per- 
haps fifty  feet  above  the  ground  there  appeared 
more  distance  between  where  it  would  alight  and 


THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD         21 

where  Eeddie  was  than  anything  human  could 
cover.  It  dropped  and  dropped,  and  then  dropped 
into  Reddie  Bay's  outstretched  hands.  He  had 
made  the  catch  look  easy.  But  the  fact  that  White 
scored  from  second  base  on  the  play  showed  what 
the  catch  really  was. 

There  was  no  movement  or  restlessness  of  the 
audience  such  as  usually  indicated  the  beginning 
of  the  exodus.  Scott  struck  Babcock  out.  The 
game  still  had  fire.  The  Grays  never  let  up  a 
moment  on  their  coaching.  And  the  hoarse  voices 
of  the  Stars  were  grimmer  than  ever.  Eeddie 
Ray  was  the  only  one  of  the  seven  who  kept  silent. 
And  he  crouched  like  a  tiger. 

The  teams  changed  sides  with  the  Grays  three 
runs  in  the  lead.  Morrissey,  for  the  Stars,  opened 
with  a  clean  drive  to  right.  Then  Healy  slashed  a 
ground  ball  to  Hanley  and  nearly  knocked  him 
down.  When  old  Burns,  by  a  hard  rap  to  short, 
advanced  the  runners  a  base  and  made  a  desper- 
ate, though  unsuccessful,  effort  to  reach  first  the 
Providence  crowd  awoke  to  a  strange  and  inspir- 
ing appreciation.  They  began  that  most  rare 
feature  in  baseball  audiences — a  strong  and  tren- 
chant call  for  the  visiting  team  to  win. 

The  play  had  gone  fast  and  furious.  Wehying, 
sweaty  and  disheveled,  worked  violently.  All  the 
Grays  were  on  uneasy  tiptoes.  And  the  Stars 
were  seven  Indians  on  the  warpath.  Halloran 
fouled  down  the  right-field  line;  then  he  fouled 


22         THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

over  the  left-field  fence.  Wehying  tried  to  make 
him  too  anxious,  but  it  was  in  vain.  Halloran  was 
implacable.  With  two  strikes  and  three  balls  he 
hit  straight  down  to  white,  and  was  out.  The 
ball  had  been  so  sharp  that  neither  runner  on  base 
had  a  chance  to  advance. 

Two  men  out,  two  on  base,  Stars  wanting  three 
runs  to  tie,  Scott,  a  weak  batter,  at  the  plate! 
The  situation  was  disheartening.  Yet  there  sat 
Delaney,  shot  through  and  through  with  some 
vital  compelling  force.  He  saw  only  victory.  And 
when  the  very  first  ball  pitched  to  Scott  hit  him 
on  the  leg,  giving  him  his  base,  Delaney  got  to  his 
feet,  unsteady  and  hoarse. 

Bases  full,  Reddie  Ray  up,  three  runs  to  tie ! 

Delaney  looked  at  Reddie.  And  Reddie  looked 
at  Delaney.  The  manager's  face  was  pale,  intent, 
with  a  little  smile.  The  player  had  eyes  of  fire, 
a  lean,  bulging  jaw  and  the  hands  he  reached  for 
his  bat  clutched  like  talons. 

"Reddie,  I  knew  it  was  waitin'  for  you,"  said 
Delaney,  his  voice  ringing.  "Break  up  the 
game!" 

After  all  this  was  only  a  baseball  game,  and  per- 
haps from  the  fans'  viewpoint  a  poor  game  at 
that.  But  the  moment  when  that  lithe,  redhaired 
athlete  toed  the  plate  was  a  beautiful  one.  The 
long  crash  from  the  bleachers,  the  steady  cheer 
from  the  grand  stand,  proved  that  it  was  not  so 
much  the  game  that  mattered. 


THE   REDHEADED    OUTFIELD         23 

Wehying  had  shot  his  bolt;  he  was  tired.  Yet 
he  made  ready  for  a  final  effort.  It  seemed  that 
passing  Eeddie  Eay  on  balls  would  have  been  a 
wise  play  at  that  juncture.  But  no  pitcher,  prob- 
ably, would  have  done  it  with  the  bases  crowded 
and  chances,  of  course,  against  the  batter. 

Clean  and  swift,  Beddie  leaped  at  the  first 
pitched  ball.  Ping!  For  a  second  no  one  saw  the 
hit.  Then  it  gleamed,  a  terrific  drive,  low  along 
the  ground,  like  a  bounding  bullet,  straight  at  Bab- 
cock  in  right  field.  It  struck  his  hands  and 
glanced  viciously  away  to  roll  toward  the  fence. 

Thunder  broke  loose  from  the  stands.  Eeddie 
Eay  was  turning  first  base.  Beyond  first  base  he 
got  into  his  wonderful  stride.  Some  runners  run 
with  a  consistent  speed,  the  best  they  can  make 
for  a  given  distance.  But  this  trained  sprinter 
gathered  speed  as  he  ran.  He  was  no  short-step- 
ping runner.  His  strides  were  long.  They  gave 
an  impression  of  strength  combined  with  fleet- 
ness.  He  had  the  speed  of  a  race  horse,  but  the 
trimness,  the  raciness,  the  delicate  legs  were  not 
characteristic  of  him.  Like  the  wind  he  turned 
second,  so  powerful  that  his  turn  was  short.  All 
at  once  there  came  a  difference  in  his  running.  It 
was  no  longer  beautiful.  The  grace  was  gone.  It 
was  now  fierce,  violent.  His  momentum  was  run- 
ning him  off  his  legs.  He  whirled  around  third 
base  and  came  hurtling  down  the  homestretch. 
His  face  was  convulsed,  his  eyes  were  wild.  His 


24         THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

arms  and  legs  worked  in  a  marvelous  muscular 
velocity.  He  seemed  a  demon — a  flying  streak. 
He  overtook  and  ran  down  the  laboring  Scott,  who 
had  almost  reached  the  plate. 

The  park  seemed  full  of  shrill,  piercing  strife. 
It  swelled,  reached  a  highest  pitch,  sustained  that 
for  a  long  moment,  and  then  declined. 

"My  Gawd!"  exclaimed  Delaney,  as  he  fell 
back.  " Wasn't  that  a  finish?  Didn't .1  tell  you 
to  watch  them  redheads  ? ' ' 


THE   KUBE 

IT  was  the  most  critical  time  I  had  yet  ex- 
perienced in  my  career  as  a  baseball  manager. 
And  there  was  more  than  the  usual  reason  why 
I  must  pull  the  team  ont.  A  chance  for  a  busi- 
ness deal  depended  upon  the  good-will  of  the 
stockholders  of  the  Worcester  club.  On  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town  was  a  little  cottage  that  I 
wanted  to  buy,  and  this  depended  upon  the  busi- 
ness deal.  My  whole  future  happiness  depended 
upon  the  little  girl  I  hoped  to  install  in  that  cot- 


Coming  to  the  Worcester  Eastern  League  team, 
I  had  found  a  strong  aggregation  and  an  en- 
thusiastic following.  I  really  had  a  team  with 
pennant  possibilities.  Providence  was  a  strong 
rival,  but  I  beat  them  three  straight  in  the  open- 
ing series,  set  a  fast  pace,  and  likewise  set  Wor- 
cester baseball  mad.  The  Eastern  League  clubs 
were  pretty  evenly  matched;  still  I  continued  to 
hold  the  lead  until  misfortune  overtook  me, 
25 


26         THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

Gregg  smashed  an  umpire  and  had  to  be  laid 
off.  Mullaney  got  spiked  while  sliding  and  was 
out  of  the  game.  Ashwell  sprained  his  ankle  and 
Hirsch  broke  a  finger.  Eadbourne,  my  great 
pitcher,  hurt  his  arm  on  a  cold  day  and  he  could 
not  get  up  his  old  speed.  Stringer,  who  had 
batted  three  hundred  and  seventy-one  and  led  the 
league  the  year  before,  struck  a  bad  spell  and 
could  not  hit  a  barn  door  handed  up  to  him. 

Then  came  the  slump.  The  team  suddenly  let 
down ;  went  to  pieces ;  played  ball  that  would  have 
disgraced  an  amateur  nine.  It  was  a  trying  time. 
Here  was  a  great  team,  strong  everywhere.  A 
little  hard  luck  had  dug  up  a  slump — and  now! 
Day  by  day  the  team  dropped  in  the  race.  When 
we  reached  the  second  division  the  newspapers 
flayed  us.  Worcester  would  never  stand  for  a 
second  division  team.  Baseball  admirers,  report- 
ers, fans — especially  the  fans — are  fickle.  The 
admirers  quit,  the  reporters  grilled  us,  and  the 
fans,  though  they  stuck  to  the  games  with  that 
barnacle-like  tenacity  peculiar  to  them,  made  life 
miserable  for  all  of  us.  I  saw  the  pennant  slowly 
fading,  and  the  successful  season,  and  the  busi- 
ness deal,  and  the  cottage,  and  Milly 

But  when  I  thought  of  Her  I  just  could  not'  see 
failure.  Something  must  be  done,  but  what?  I 
was  at  the  end  of  my  wits.  When  Jersey  City 
beat  us  that  Saturday,  eleven  to  two,  shoving  us 
down  to  fifth  place  with  only  a  few  percentage 


THE   BUBE  27 

points  above  the  Fall  River  team,  I  grew  des- 
perate, and  locking  my  players  in  the  dressing 
room  I  went  after  them.  They  had  lain  down  on 
me  and  needed  a  jar.  I  told  them  so  straight  and 
flat,  and  being  bitter,  I  did  not  pick  and  choose 
my  words. 

"And  fellows,"  I  concluded,  "you've  got  to 
brace.  A  little  more  of  this  and  we  can't  pull  out. 
I  tell  you  you're  a  championship  team.  We  had 
that  pennant  cinched.  A  few  cuts  and  sprains 
and  hard  luck — and  you  all  quit !  You  lay  down ! 
I've  been  patient.  I've  plugged  for  you.  Never 
a  man  have  I  fined  or  thrown  down.  But  now  I'm 
at  the  end  of  my  string.  I'm  out  to  fine  you 
now,  and  I'll  release  the  first  man  who  shows 
the  least  yellow.  I  play  no  more  substitutes. 
Crippled  or  not,  you  guys  have  got  to  get  in  the 
game. ' ' 

I  waited  to  catch  my  breath  and  expected  some 
such  outburst  as  managers  usually  get  from  criti- 
cized players.  But  not  a  word !  Then  I  addressed 
some  of  them  personally. 

"Gregg,  your  lay-off  ends  today.  You  play 
Monday.  Mullaney,  you've  drawn  your  salary 
for  two  weeks  with  that  spiked  foot.  If  you  can't 
run  on  it — well,  all  right,  but  I  put  it  up  to  your 
good  faith.  I've  played  the  game  and  I  know 
it's  hard  to  run  on  a  sore  foot.  But  you  can  do  it. 
Ashwell,  your  ankle  is  lame,  I  know — now,  can 
you  run?" 


28         THE   REDHEADED    OUTFIELD 

"Sure  I  can.  I'm  not  a  quitter.  I'm  ready  to 
go  in,"  replied  Ashwell. 

"Baddy,  how  about  you?"  I  said,  turning  to 
my  star  twirler. 

"Connelly,  I've  seen  as  fast  a  team  in  as  bad  a 
rut  and  yet  pull  out,"  returned  Eadbourne. 
"We're  about  due  for  the  brace.  When  it  comes 
— look  out!  As  for  me,  well,  my  arm  isn't  right, 
but  it's  acting  these  warm  days  in  a  way  that  tells 
me  it  will  be  soon.  It's  been  worked  too  hard. 
Can't  you  get  another  pitcher?  I'm  not  knocking 
Herne  or  Cairns.  They're  good  for  their  turn, 
but  we  need  a  new  man  to  help  out.  And  he  must 
be  a  cracker  jack  if  we're  to  get  back  to  the  lead." 

"Where  on  earth  can  I  find  such  a  pitcher?"  I 
shouted,  almost  distracted. 

"Well,  that's  up  to  you,"  replied  Eadbourne. 

Up  to  me  it  certainly  was,  and  I  cudgeled  my 
brains  for  inspiration.  After  I  had  given  up  in 
hopelessness  it  came  in  the  shape  of  a  notice  I 
read  in  one  of  the  papers.  It  was  a  brief  men- 
tion of  an  amateur  Worcester  ball  team  being  shut 
out  in  a  game  with  a  Eickettsville  nine.  Eicketts- 
ville  played  Sunday  ball,  which  gave  me  an  oppor- 
tunity to  look  them  over. 

It  took  some  train  riding  and  then  a  journey 
by  coach  to  get  to  Eickettsville.  I  mingled  with 
the  crowd  of  talking  rustics.  There  was  only  one 
little  "bleachers"  and  this  was  loaded  to  the 
danger  point  with  the  feminine  adherents  of  the 


THE   KUBE  29 

teams.  Most  of  the  crowd  centered  alongside  and 
back  of  the  catcher's  box.  I  edged  in  and  got  a 
position  just  behind  the  stone  that  served  as  home 
plate. 

Hunting  up  a  player  in  this  way  was  no  new 
thing  to  me.  I  was  too  wise  to  make  myself 
known  before  I  had  sized  up  the  merits  of  my 
man.  So,  before  the  players  came  upon  the  field 
I  amused  myself  watching  the  rustic  fans  and  lis- 
tening to  them.  Then  a  roar  announced  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  Kickettsville  team  and  their 
opponents,  who  wore  the  name  of  Spatsburg  on 
their  Canton  flannel  shirts.  The  uniforms  of  these 
country  amateurs  would  have  put  a  Philadelphia 
Mummer's  parade  to  the  blush,  at  least  for  bright 
colors.  But  after  one  amused  glance  I  got  down 
to  the  stern  business  of  the  day,  and  that  was  to 
discover  a  pitcher,  and  failing  that,  baseball  talent 
of  any  kind. 

Never  shall  I  forget  my  first  glimpse  of  the 
Eickettsville  twirler.  He  was  far  over  six  feet 
tall  and  as  lean  as  a  fence  rail.  He  had  a  great 
shock  of  light  hair,  a  sunburned,  sharp-featured 
face,  wide,  sloping  shoulders,  and  arms  enor- 
mously long.  He  was  about  as  graceful  and  had 
about  as  much  of  a  baseball  walk  as  a  crippled  cow. 

"He's  a  rube!"  I  ejaculated,  in  disgust  and 
disappointment. 

But  when  I  had  seen  him  throw  one  ball  to  his 
catcher  I  grew  as  keen  as  a  fox  on  a  scent.  What 


30         THE   BEDHEADED    OUTFIELD 

speed  he  had!  I  got  round  closer  to  him  and 
watched  him  with  sharp,  eager  eyes.  He  was  a 
giant.  To  be  sure,  he  was  lean,  rawboned  as  a 
horse,  but  powerful.  What  won  me  at  once  was 
his  natural,  easy  swing.  He  got  the  ball  away 
with  scarcely  any  effort.  I  wondered  what  he 
could  do  when  he  brought  the  motion  of  his  body 
into  play. 

"Bub,  what  might  be  the  pitcher's  name?"  I 
asked  of  a  boy. 

"Huh,  mister,  his  name  might  be  Dennis,  but 
it  ain't.  Huh!"  replied  this  country  youngster. 
Evidently  my  question  had  thrown  some  impli- 
cation upon  this  particular  player. 

"I  reckon  you  be  a  stranger  in  these  parts," 
said  a  pleasant  old  fellow.  "His  name's  Hurtle 
— Whitaker  Hurtle.  Whit  fer  short.  He  hain't 
lost  a  gol-darned  game  this  summer.  No  sir-ee! 
Never  pitched  any  before,  nuther." 

Hurtle!    What  a  remarkably  fitting  name! 

Rickettsville  chose  the  field  and  the  game  began. 
Hurtle  swung  with  his  easy  motion.  The  ball  shot 
across  like  a  white  bullet.  It  was  a  strike,  and  so 
was  the  next,  and  the  one  succeeding.  He  could 
not  throw  anything  but  strikes,  and  it  seemed  the 
Spatsburg  players  could  not  make  even  a  foul. 

Outside  of  Hurtle 's  work  the  game  meant  little 
to  me.  And  I  w~as  so  fascinated  by  what  I  saw  in 
him  that  I  could  hardly  contain  myself.  After 
the  first  few  innings  I  no  longer  tried  to.  I  yelled 


THE   RUBE  31 

with  the  Rickettsville  rooters.  The  man  was  a 
wonder.  A  blind  baseball  manager  could  have 
seen  that.  He  had  a  straight  ball,  shoulder  high, 
level  as  a  stretched  string,  and  fast.  He  had  a 
jump  ball,  which  he  evidently  worked  by  putting 
on  a  little  more  steam,  and  it  was  the  speediest 
thing  I  ever  saw  in  the  way  of  a  shoot.  He  had  a 
wide-sweeping  outcurve,  wide  as  the  blade  of  a 
mowing  scythe.  And  he  had  a  drop — an  un- 
hittable  drop.  He  did  not  use  it  often,  for  it  made 
his  catcher  dig  too  hard  into  the  dirt.  But  when- 
ever he  did  I  glowed  all  over.  Once  or  twice  he 
used  an  underhand  motion  and  sent  in  a  ball  that 
fairly  swooped  up.  It  could  not  have  been  hit 
with  a  board.  And  best  of  all,  dearest  to  the  man- 
ager's heart,  he  had  control.  Every  ball  he  threw 
went  over  the  plate.  He  could  not  miss  it.  To 
him  that  plate  was  as  big  as  a  house. 

What  a  find !  Already  I  had  visions  of  the  long- 
looked-for  brace  of  my  team,  and  of  the  pennant, 
and  the  little  cottage,  and  the  happy  light  of  a 
pair  of  blue  eyes.  What  he  meant  to  me,  that 
country  pitcher  Hurtle!  He  shut  out  the  Spats- 
burg  team  without  a  run  or  a  hit  or  even  a  scratch. 
Then  I  went  after  him.  I  collared  him  and  his 
manager,  and  there,  surrounded  by  the  gaping 
players,  I  bought  him  and  signed  him  before  any 
of  them  knew  exactly  what  I  was  about.  I  did 
not  haggle.  I  asked  the  manager  what  he  wanted 
and  produced  the  cash;  I  asked  Hurtle  what  he 


32         THE   KEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

wanted,  doubled  his  ridiculously  modest  demand, 
paid  him  in  advance,  and  got  his  name  to  the  con- 
tract. Then  I  breathed  a  long,  deep  breath ;  the 
first  one  for  weeks.  Something  told  me  that  with 
Hurtle's  signature  in  my  pocket  I  had  the  Eastern 
League  pennant.  Then  I  invited  all  concerned 
down  to  the  Kickettsville  hotel. 

"We  made  connections  at  the  railroad  junction 
and  reached  Worcester  at  midnight  in  time  for  a 
good  sleep.  I  took  the  silent  and  backward 
pitcher  to  my  hotel.  In  the  morning  we  had 
breakfast  together.  I  showed  him  about  Wor- 
cester and  then  carried  him  off  to  the  ball  grounds. 

I  had  ordered  morning  practice,  and  as  morn- 
ing practice  is  not  conducive  to  the  cheerfulness 
of  ball  players,  I  wanted  to  reach  the  dressing 
room  a  little  late.  When  we  arrived,  all  the  play- 
ers had  dressed  and  were  out  on  the  field.  I  had 
some  difficulty  in  fitting  Hurtle  with  a  uniform, 
and  when  I  did  get  him  dressed  he  resembled  a 
two-legged  giraffe  decked  out  in  white  shirt,  gray 
trousers  and  maroon  stockings. 

Spears,  my  veteran  first  baseman  and  captain 
of  the  team,  was  the  first  to  see  us. 

"Sufferin'  umpires!"  yelled  Spears.  "Here, 
you  Micks !  Look  at  this  Con's  got  with  him!" 

What  a  yell  burst  from  that  sore  and  dis- 
gruntled bunch  of  ball  tossers !  My  players  were 
a  grouchy  set  in  practice  anyway,  and  today  they 
were  in  their  meanest  mood. 


THE   RUBE  33 

"Hey,  beanpole!" 

" Get  on  to  the  stilts!" 

"Con,  where  did  you  find  that?" 

I  cut  short  their  chaffing  with  a  sharp  order  for 
batting  practice. 

"Regular  line-up,  now  no  monkey  biz,"  I  went 
on.  "Take  two  cracks  and  a  bunt.  Here,  Hur- 
tle," I  said,  drawing  him  toward  the  pitcher 's 
box,  "don't  pay  any  attention  to  their  talk.  That's 
only  the  fun  of  ball  players.  Go  in  now  and  prac- 
tice a  little.  Lam  a  few  over." 

Hurtle's  big  freckled  hands  closed  nervously 
over  the  ball.  I  thought  it  best  not  to  say  more 
to  him,  for  he  had  a  rather  wild  look.  I  remem- 
bered my  own  stage  fright  upon  my  first  appear- 
ance in  fast  company.  Besides  I  knew  what  my 
amiable  players  would  say  to  him.  I  had  a  secret 
hope  and  belief  that  presently  they  would  yell 
upon  the  other  side  of  the  fence. 

McCall,  my  speedy  little  left  fielder,  led 
off  at  bat.  He  was  full  of  ginger,  chipper  as 
a  squirrel,  sarcastic  as  only  a  tried  ball  player 
can  be. 

"Put  'em  over,  Slats,  put  'em  over,"  he  called, 
viciously  swinging  his  ash. 

Hurtle  stood  stiff  and  awkward  in  the  box  and 
seemed  to  be  rolling  something  in  his  mouth. 
Then  he  moved  his  arm.  We  all  saw  the  ball 
dart  down  straight — that  is,  all  of  us  except 
McCall,  because  if  he  had  seen  it  he  might  have 


34         THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

jumped  out  of  the  way.    Crack!    The  ball  hit  him 
on  the  shin. 

McCall  shrieked.  We  all  groaned.  That  crack 
hurt  all  of  us.  Any  baseball  player  knows  how  it 
hurts  to  be  hit  on  the  shinbone.  McCall  waved 
his  bat  madly. 

"Rube!    Rube!    Rube!"  he  yelled. 

Then  and  there  Hurtle  got  the  name  that  was 
to  cling  to  him  all  his  baseball  days. 

McCall  went  back  to  the  plate,  red  in  the  face, 
mad  as  a  hornet,  and  he  sidestepped  every  time 
Rube  pitched  a  ball.  He  never  even  ticked  one 
and  retired  in  disgust,  limping  and  swearing. 
Ashwell  was  next.  He  did  not  show  much  alac- 
rity. On  Rube 's  first  pitch  down  went  Ashwell  flat 
in  the  dust.  The  ball  whipped  the  hair  of  his 
head.  Rube  was  wild  and  I  began  to  get  worried. 
Ashwell  hit  a  couple  of  measly  punks,  but  when 
he  assayed  a  bunt  the  gang  yelled  derisively  at 
him. 

"What's  he  got?"  The  old  familiar  cry  of 
batters  when  facing  a  new  pitcher! 

Stringer  went  up,  bold  and  formidable.  That 
was  what  made  him  the  great  hitter  he  was.  He 
loved  to  bat;  he  would  have  faced  anybody;  he 
would  have  faced  even  a  cannon.  New  curves 
were  a  fascination  to  him.  And  speed  for  him, 
in  his  own  words,  was  "apple  pie."  In  this  in- 
stance, surprise  was  in  store  for  Stringer.  Rube 
shot  up  the  straight  one,  then  the  wide  curve,  then 


THE   EUBE  35 

the  drop.  Stringer  missed  them  all,  struck  out, 
fell  down  ignominiously.  It  was  the  first  time 
he  had  fanned  that  season  and  he  looked  dazed. 
We  had  to  haul  him  away. 

I  called  off  the  practice,  somewhat  worried 
about  Rube's  showing,  and  undecided  whether  or 
not  to  try  him  in  the  game  that  day.  So  I  went 
to  Eadbourne,  who  had  quietly  watched  Eube 
while  on  the  field.  Raddy  was  an  old  pitcher  and 
had  seen  the  rise  of  a  hundred  stars.  I  told  him 
about  the  game  at  Rickettsville  and  what  I  thought 
of  Rube,  and  frankly  asked  his  opinion. 

"Con,  youVe  made  the  find  of  your  life,"  said 
Raddy,  quietly  and  deliberately. 

This  from  Radbourne  was  not  only  comforting ; 
it  was  relief,  hope,  assurance.  I  avoided  Spears, 
for  it  would  hardly  be  possible  for  him  to  regard 
the  Rube  favorably,  and  I  kept  under  cover  until 
time  to  show  up  at  the  grounds. 

Buffalo  was  on  the  ticket  for  that  afternoon, 
and  the  Bisons  were  leading  the  race  and  playing 
in  topnotch  form.  I  went  into  the  dressing  room 
while  the  players  were  changing  suits,  because 
there  was  a  little  unpleasantness  that  I  wanted  to 
spring  on  them  before  we  got  on  the  field. 

"Boys,"  I  said,  curtly,  "Hurtle  works  today. 
Cut  loose,  now,  and  back  him  up." 

I  had  to  grab  a  bat  and  pound  on  the  wall  to 
stop  the  uproar. 

"Did  you  mutts  hear  what  I  said?  Well,  it  goes. 


36         THE   EEDHEADED    OUTFIELD 

Not  a  word,  now.  I  'm  handling  this  team.  We  're 
in  bad,  I  know,  but  it's  my  jndgment  to  pitch  Hur- 
tle, rube  or  no  rube,  and  it's  up  to  you  to  back 
us.  That's  the  baseball  of  it." 

Grumbling  and  muttering,  they  passed  out  of 
the  dressing  room.  I  knew  ball  players.  If  Hur- 
tle should  happen  to  show  good  form  they  would 
turn  in  a  flash.  Rube  tagged  reluctantly  in  their 
rear.  He  looked  like  a  man  in  a  trance.  I  wanted 
to  speak  encouragingly  to  him,  but  Raddy  told  me 
to  keep  quiet. 

It  was  inspiring  to  see  my  team  practice  that 
afternoon.  There  had  come  a  subtle  change.  I 
foresaw  one  of  those  baseball  climaxes  that  can 
be  felt  and  seen,  but  not  explained.  "Whether  it 
was  a  hint  of  the  hoped-for  brace,  or  only  another 
flash  of  form  before  the  final  let-down,  I  had  no 
means  to  tell.  But  I  was  on  edge. 

Carter,  the  umpire,  called  out  the  batteries,  and 
I  sent  my  team  into  the  field.  When  that  long, 
lanky,  awkward  rustic  started  for  the  pitcher's 
box,  I  thought  the  bleachers  would  make  him  drop 
in  his  tracks.  The  fans  were  sore  on  any  one 
those  days,  and  a  new  pitcher  was  bound  to  hear 
from  them. 

"Where!    Oh,  where!    Oh,  where!" 

"Connelly's  found  another  dead  one!" 

"Scarecrow!" 

"Look  at  his  pants!" 

"Pad  his  legs!" 


THE   EUBE  37 

TKen  the  inning  began,  and  things  happened. 
Eube  had  marvelous  speed,  but  he  could  not  find 
the  plate.  He  threw  the  ball  the  second  he  got 
it ;  he  hit  men,  walked  men,  and  fell  all  over  him- 
self trying  to  field  bunts.  The  crowd  stormed  and 
railed  and  hissed.  The  Bisons  pranced  round  the 
bases  and  yelled  like  Indians.  Finally  they  retired 
with  eight  runs. 

Eight  runs!  Enough  to  win  two  games!  I 
could  not  have  told  how  it  happened.  I  was  sick 
and  all  but  crushed.  Still  I  had  a  blind,  dogged 
faith  in  the  big  rustic.  I  believed  he  had  not  got 
started  right.  It  was  a  trying  situation.  I  called 
Spears  and  Eaddy  to  my  side  and  talked  fast. 

"It's  all  off  now.  Let  the  dinged  rube  take  his 
medicine,"  growled  Spears. 

* '  Don 't  take  him  out, ' '  said  Eaddy.  * '  He 's  not 
shown  at  all  what's  in  him.  The  blamed  hay- 
seed is  up  in  the  air.  He's  crazy.  He  doesn't 
know  what  he 's  doing.  I  tell  you,  Con,  he  may  be 
scared  to  death,  but  he's  dead  in  earnest." 

Suddenly  I  recalled  the  advice  of  the  pleasant 
old  fellow  at  Eickettsville. 

"Spears,  you're  the  captain,"  I  said,  sharply. 
"Go  after  the  rube.  Wake  him  up.  Tell  him  he 
can't  pitch.  Call  him  'Pogie!'  That's  a  name 
that  stirs  him  up." 

"Well,  I'll  be  dinged!  He  looks  it,"  replied 
Spears.  "Here,  Eube,  get  off  the  bench.  Come 
here." 


38         THE   KEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

Rube  lurched  toward  us.  He  seemed  to  be 
walking  in  his  sleep.  His  breast  was  laboring  and 
he  was  dripping  with  sweat. 

"Who  ever  told  you  that  you  could  pitch?" 
asked  Spears  genially.  He  was  master  at  baseball 
ridicule.  I  had  never  yet  seen  the  youngster  who 
could  stand  his  badinage.  He  said  a  few  things, 
then  wound  up  with:  "Come  now,  you  cross  be- 
tween a  hayrack  and  a  wagon  tongue,  get  sore  and 
do  something.  Pitch  if  you  can.  Show  us!  Do 
you  hear,  you  tow-headed  Pogie!" 

Eube  jumped  as  if  he  had  been  struck.  His  face 
flamed  red  and  his  little  eyes  turned  black.  He 
shoved  his  big  fist  under  Capt.  Spears'  nose. 

"Mister,  I'll  lick  you  fer  thet — after  the  game! 
And  I'll  show  yon  dog-goned  well  how  I  can 
pitch." 

"Good!"  exclaimed  Baddy;  and  I  echoed  his 
word.  Then  I  went  to  the  bench  and  turned  my 
attention  to  the  game.  Some  one  told  me  that 
McCall  had  made  a  couple  of  fouls,  and  after  wait- 
ing for  two  strikes  and  three  balls  had  struck 
out.  Ashwell  had  beat  out  a  bunt  in  his  old  swift 
style,  and  Stringer  was  walking  up  to  the  plate 
on  the  moment.  It  was  interesting,  even  in  a  los- 
ing game,  to  see  Stringer  go  to  bat.  We  all 
watched  him,  as  we  had  been  watching  him  for 
weeks,  expecting  him  to  break  his  slump  with  one 
of  the  drives  that  had  made  him  famous.  Stringer 
stood  to  the  left  side  of  the  plate,  and  I  could 


THE   BUBE  39 

see  the  bnlge  of  his  closely  locked  javr.  He  swung 
on  the  first  pitched  ball.  With  the  solid  rap  we 
all  rose  to  watch  that  hit.  The  ball  lined  first, 
then  soared  and  did  not  begin  to  drop  till  it  was 
far  beyond  the  right-field  fence.  For  an  instant 
we  were  all  still,  so  were  the  bleachers.  Stringer 
had  broken  his  slump  with  the  longest  drive  ever 
made  on  the  grounds.  The  crowd  cheered  as  he 
trotted  around  the  bases  behind  Ashwell.  Two 
runs. 

"Con,  how'd  you  like  that  drive f"  he  asked 
me,  with  a  bright  gleam  in  his  eyes. 

' '  0-h- ! — a  beaut ! "  I  replied,  incoherently.  The 
players  on  the  bench  were  all  as  glad  as  I  was. 
Henley  flew  out  to  left.  Mullaney  smashed  a  two- 
bagger  to  right.  Then  Gregg  hit  safely,  but  Mul- 
laney, in  trying  to  score  on  the  play,  was  out  at 
the  plate. 

"Four  hits!  I  tell  you  fellows,  something's 
coming  off/'  said  Eaddy.  "Now,  if  only 
Rube " 

What  a  difference  there  was  in  that  long  rustic ! 
He  stalked  into  the  box,  unmindful  of  the  hooting 
crowd  and  grimly  faced  Schultz,  the  first  batter 
up  for  the  Bisons.  This  time  Rube  was  deliber- 
ate. And  where  he  had  not  swung  before  he  now 
got  his  body  and  arm  into  full  motion.  The  ball 
came  in  like  a  glint  of  light.  Schultz  looked  sur- 
prised. The  umpire  called  "Strike!" 

* '  Wow ! ' '  yelled  the  Buffalo  coacher.   Rube  sped 


40         THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

up  the  sidewheeler  and  Schultz  reached  wide  to 
meet  it  and  failed.  The  third  was  the  lightning 
drop,  straight  over  the  plate.  The  batter  poked 
weakly  at  it.  Then  Carl  struck  out  and  Manning 
following,  did  likewise.  Three  of  the  best  hitters 
in  the  Eastern  retired  on  nine  strikes !  That  was 
no  fluke.  I  knew  what  it  meant,  and  I  sat  there 
hugging  myself  with  the  hum  of  something  joyous 
in  my  ears. 

Gregg  had  a  glow  on  his  sweaty  face.  "Oh,  but 
say,  boys,  take  a  tip  from  me !  The  Rube 's  a  world 
beater!  Raddy  knew  it;  he  sized  up  that  swing, 
and  now  I  know  it.  Get  wise,  you  its ! " 

When  old  Spears  pasted  a  single  through  short- 
stop, the  Buffalo  manager  took  Clary  out  of  the 
box  and  put  in  Vane,  their  best  pitcher.  Bogart 
advanced  the  runner  to  second,  but  was  thrown 
out  on  the  play.  Then  Rube  came  up.  He  swung 
a  huge  bat  and  loomed  over  the  Bison's  twirler. 
Rube  had  the  look  of  a  hitter.  He  seemed  to  be 
holding  himself  back  from  walking  right  into  the 
ball.  And  he  hit  one  high  and  far  away.  The 
fast  Carl  could  not  get  under  it,  though  he  made 
a  valiant  effort.  Spears  scored  and  Rube's  long 
strides  carried  him  to  third.  The  cold  crowd  in 
the  stands  came  to  life;  even  the  sore  bleachers 
opened  up.  McCall  dumped  a  slow  teaser  down 
the  line,  a  hit  that  would  easily  have  scored  Rube, 
but  he  ran  a  little  way,  then  stopped,  tried  to  get 
back,  and  was  easily  touched  out.  Ashwell's  hard 


THE   EUBE  41 

chance  gave  the  Bison's  shortstop  an  error,  and 
Stringer  came  up  with  two  men  on  bases.  Stringer 
hit  a  foul  over  the  right-field  fence  and  the  crowd 
howled.  Then  he  hit  a  hard  long  drive  straight 
into  the  centerfielder's  hands. 

"Con,  I  don't  know  what  to  think,  but  ding  me 
if  we  ain't  hittin'  the  ball,"  said  Spears.  Then 
to  his  players:  "A  little  more  of  that  and  we're 
back  in  our  old  shape.  All  in  a  minute — at  'em 
now !  Eube,  you  dinged  old  Pogie,  pitch ! ' ' 

Rube  toed  the  rubber,  wrapped  his  long  brown 
fingers  round  the  ball,  stepped  out  as  he  swung 
and — zing !  That  inning  he  unloosed  a  few  more 
kinks  in  his  arm  and  he  tried  some  new  balls  upon 
the  Bisons.  But  whatever  he  used  and  wherever 
he  put  them  the  result  was  the  same — they  cut  the 
plate  and  the  Bisons  were  powerless. 

That  inning  marked  the  change  in  my  team. 
They  had  come  back.  The  hoodoo  had  vanished. 
The  championship  Worcester  team  was  itself 
again. 

The  Bisons  were  fighting,  too,  but  Eube  had 
them  helpless.  When  they  did  hit  a  ball  one  of 
my  infielders  snapped  it  up.  No  chances  went  to 
the  outfield.  I  sat  there  listening  to  my  men,  and 
reveled  in  a  moment  that  I  had  long  prayed  for. 

"Now  you're  pitching  some,  Eube.  Another 
strike !  Get  him  a  board ! "  called  Ashwell. 

"Ding  'em,  Eube,  ding  'em!"  came  from  Capt. 
Spears. 


42         THE   EEDHEADED    OUTFIELD 

1 ' Speed?  Oh— no!"  yelled  Bogart  at  third 
base. 

"It's  all  off,  Knbe!    It's  all  off— all  off!" 

So,  with  the  wonderful  pitching  of  an  angry 
rnbe,  the  "Worcester  team  came  into  its  own 
again.  I  sat  through  it  all  withont  another  word ; 
without  giving  a  signal.  In  a  way  I  realized  the 
awakening  of  the  bleachers,  and  heard  the  pound 
of  feet  and  the  crash,  but  it  was  the  spirit  of  my 
team  that  thrilled  me.  Next  to  that  the  work  of 
my  new  find  absorbed  me.  I  gloated  over  his  easy, 
deceiving  swing.  I  rose  out  of  my  seat  when  he 
threw  that  straight  fast  ball,  swift  as  a  bullet, 
true  as  a  plumb  line.  And  when  those  hard-hit- 
ting, sure  bunting  Bisons  chopped  in  vain  at  the 
wonderful  drop,  I  choked  back  a  wild  yell.  For 
Eube  meant  the  world  to  me  that  day. 

In  the  eighth  the  score  was  8  to  6.  The  Bisons 
Had  one  scratch  hit  to  their  credit,  but  not  a 
runner  had  got  beyond  first  base.  Again  Eube 
held  them  safely,  one  man  striking  out,  another 
fouling  out,  and  the  third  going  out  on  a  little  fly. 

Crash!  Crash!  Crash!  Crash!  The  bleach- 
ers were  making  up  for  many  games  in  which 
they  could  not  express  their  riotous  feelings. 

"It's  a  cinch  well  win!"  yelled  a  fan  with  a 
voice.  Eube  was  the  first  man  up  in  our  half  of 
the  ninth  and  his  big  bat  lammed  the  first  ball 
safe  over  second  base.  The  crowd,  hungry  for 
victory,  got  to  their  feet  and  stayed  upon  their 


THE   RUBE  43 

feet,  calling,  cheering  for  runs.  It  was  the  mo- 
ment for  me  to  get  in  the  game,  and  I  leaped  up, 
strung  like  a  wire,  and  white  hot  with  inspira- 
tion. I  sent  Spears  to  the  coaching  box  with 
orders  to  make  Rube  run  on  the  first  ball.  I 
gripped  McCall  with  hands  that  made  him  wince. 

Then  I  dropped  back  on  the  bench  spent  and 
panting.  It  was  only  a  game,  yet  it  meant  so 
much !  Little  McCall  was  dark  as  a  thunder  cloud, 
and  his  fiery  eyes  snapped.  He  was  the  fastest 
man  in  the  league,  and  could  have  bunted  an 
arrow  from  a  bow.  The  foxy  Bison  third  base- 
man edged  in.  Mac  feinted  to  bunt  toward  him 
then  turned  his  bat  inward  and  dumped  a  teasing 
curving  ball  down  the  first  base  line.  Rube  ran 
as  if  in  seven-league  boots.  Mac's  short  legs 
twinkled;  he  went  like  the  wind;  he  leaped  into 
first  base  with  his  long  slide,  and  beat  the 
throw. 

The  stands  and  bleachers  seemed  to  be  'tumbling 
down.  For  a  moment  the  air  was  full  of  deafen- 
ing sound.  Then  came  the  pause,  the  dying  away 
of  clatter  and  roar,  the  close  waiting,  suspended 
quiet.  Spears'  clear  voice,  as  he  coached  Rube,  in 
its  keen  note  seemed  inevitable  of  another  run. 

Ashwell  took  his  stand.  He  was  another  left- 
hand  hitter,  and  against  a  right-hand  pitcher,  in 
such  circumstances  as  these,  the  most  dangerous 
of  men.  Vane  knew  it.  Ellis,  the  Bison  captain 
knew  it,  as  showed  plainly  in  his  signal  to  catch 


44         THE   BEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

Bube  at  second.  But  Spears'  warning  held  or 
frightened  Rube  on  the  bag. 

Vane  wasted  a  ball,  then  another.  Ashwell 
could  not  be  coaxed.  Wearily  Vane  swung;  the 
shortstop  raced  out  to  get  in  line  for  a  pos- 
sible hit  through  the  wide  space  to  his  right, 
and  the  second  baseman  got  on  his  toes  as  both 
base  runners  started. 

Crack !  The  old  story  of  the  hit  and  run  game ! 
Ashwell 's  hit  crossed  sharply  where  a  moment 
before  the  shortstop  had  been  standing.  With 
gigantic  strides  Bube  rounded  the  corner  and 
scored.  McCall  flitted  through  second,  and  diving 
into  third  witK  a  cloud  of  dust,  got  the  umpire's 
decision.  When  Stringer  hurried  up  with  Mac 
on  third  and  Ash  on  first  the  whole  field  seemed 
racked  in  a  deafening  storm.  Again  it  subsided 
quickly.  The  hopes  of  the  Worcester  fans  had 
been  crushed  too  often  of  late  for  them  to  be  fear- 


But  I  had  no  fear.  I  only  wanted  the  suspense 
ended.  I  was  like  a  man  clamped  in  a  vise. 
Stringer  stood  motionless.  Mac  bent  low  with  the 
sprinters'  stoop;  Ash  watched  the  pitcher's  arm 
and  slowly  edged  off  first.  Stringer  waited  for 
one  strike  and  two  balls,  then  he  hit  the  next.  It 
hugged  the  first  base  line,  bounced  fiercely  past 
the  bag  and  skipped  over  the  grass  to  bump  hard 
into  the  fence.  McCall  romped  home,  and  lame 
Ashwell  beat  any  run  he  ever  made  to  the  plate. 


THE   KUBE  45 

Boiling,  swelling,  crashing  roar  of  frenzied  feet 
could  not  down  the  high  piercing  sustained  yell  of 
the  fans.  It  was  great.  Three  weeks  of  sub- 
merged bottled  baseball  joy  exploded  in  one  mad 
outburst !  The  fans,  too,  had  come  into  their  own 
again. 

We  scored  no  more.  But  the  Bisons  were 
beaten.  Their  spirit  was  broken.  This  did  not 
make  the  Rube  let  up  in  their  last  half  inning. 
Grim  and  pale  he  faced  them.  At  every  long  step 
and  swing  he  tossed  his  shock  of  light  hair.  At 
the  end  he  was  even  stronger  than  at  the  begin- 
ning. He  still  had  the  glancing,  floating  airy 
quality  that  baseball  players  call  speed.  And  he 
struck  out  the  last  three  batters. 

In  the  tumult  that  burst  over  my  ears  I  sat 
staring  at  the  dots  on  my  score  card.  Fourteen 
strike  outs!  one  scratch  hit!  No  base  on  balls 
since  the  first  inning!  That  told  the  story  which 
deadened  senses  doubted.  There  was  a  roar  in 
my  ears.  Some  one  was  pounding  me.  As  I  strug- 
gled to  get  into  the  dressing  room  the  crowd 
mobbed  me.  But  I  did  not  hear  what  they  yelled. 
I  had  a  kind  of  misty  veil  before  my  eyes,  in 
which  I  saw  that  lanky  Rube  magnified  into  a 
glorious  figure.  I  saw  the  pennant  waving,  and 
the  gleam  of  a  white  cottage  through  the  trees, 
and  a  trim  figure  waiting  at  the  gate.  Then  I 
rolled  into  the  dressing  room. 

Somehow  it  seemed  strange  to  me.    Most  of  the 


46         THE   EEDHEADED    OUTFIELD 

players  were  stretched  out  in  peculiar  convul- 
sions. Old  Spears  sat  with  drooping  head.  Then 
a  wild  flaming-eyed  giant  swooped  upon  me.  With 
a  voice  of  thunder  he  announced : 

"I'm  a-goin'  to  lick  you,  too!" 

After  that  we  never  called  him  any  name  except 
Rube. 


THE  KUBE'S   PENNANT 

" FELLOWS,  it's  this  way.  You've  got  to  win 
today 's  game.  It's  the  last  of  the  season  and 
means  the  pennant  for  Worcester.  One  more 
hard  scrap  and  we're  done!  Of  all  the  up-hill 
fights  any  bunch  ever  made  to  land  the  flag,  our 
has  been  the  best.  You're  the  best  team  I  ever 
managed,  the  gamest  gang  of  ball  players  that 
ever  stepped  in  spikes.  We've  played  in  the 
hardest  kind  of  luck  all  season,  except  that  short 
trip  we  called  the  Rube's  Honeymoon.  We  got  a 
bad  start,  and  sore  arms  and  busted  fingers,  all 
kinds  of  injuries,  every  accident  calculated  to  hurt 
a  team's  chances,  came  our  way.  But  in  spite  of 
it  all  we  got  the  lead  and  we've  held  it,  and  today 
we're  still  a  few  points  ahead  of  Buffalo." 

I  paused  to  catch  my  breath,  and  looked  round 
on  the  grim,  tired  faces  of  my  players.  They 
made  a  stern  group.  The  close  of  the  season 
found  them  almost  played  out.  What  a  hard 
chance  it  was,  after  their  extraordinary  efforts, 
47 


48         THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

to  bring  the  issue  of  the  pennant  down  to  this  last 
game! 

"If  we  lose  today,  Buffalo,  with  three  games 
more  to  play  at  home,  will  pull  the  bunting, "  I 
went  on.  "But  they're  not  going  to  win!  I'm 
putting  it  up  to  you  that  way.  I  know  Spears  is 
all  in;  Baddy's  arm  is  gone;  Ash  is  playing  on 
one  leg;  you're  all  crippled.  But  youVe  got  one 
more  game  in  you,  I  know.  These  last  few  weeks 
the  Eube  has  been  pitching  out  of  turn  and  he's 
about  all  in,  too.  He 's  kept  us  in  the  lead.  If  he 
wins  today  it'll  be  Rube's  Pennant.  But  that 
might  apply  to  all  of  you.  Now,  shall  we  talk 
over  the  play  today  ?  Any  tricks  to  pull  off  f  Any 
inside  work?" 

"Con,  you're  pretty  much  upset  an'  nervous," 
replied  Spears,  soberly.  "It  ain't  no  wonder. 
This  has  been  one  corker  of  a  season.  I  want  to 
suggest  that  you  let  me  run  the  team  today.  I've 
talked  over  the  play  with  the  fellers.  "We  ain't 
goin'  to  lose  this  game,  Con.  Buffalo  has  been 
comin'  with  a  rush  lately,  an'  they're  confident. 
But  we've  been  holdin'  in,  restin'  up  as  much  as 
we  dared  an'  still  keep  our  lead.  Mebbee  it'll  sur- 
prise you  to  know  we  Ve  bet  every  dollar  we  could 
get  hold  of  on  this  game.  Why,  Buffalo  money  is 
everywhere. ' ' 

"All  right,  Spears,  I'll  turn  the  team  over  to 
you.  We've  got  the  banner  crowd  of  the  year  out 
there  right  now,  a  great  crowd  to  play  before. 


THE   RUBE'S    PENNANT  49 

I'm  more  fussed  np  over  this  game  than  any  I 
remember.  But  I  have  a  sort  of  blind  faith  in 
my  team.  ...  I  guess  that's  all  I  want  to  say." 

Spears  led  the  silent  players  out  of  the  dress- 
ing room  and  I  followed ;  and  while  they  began  to 
toss  balls  to  and  fro,  to  limber  up  cold,  dead  arms, 
I  sat  on  the  bench. 

The  Bisons  were  prancing  about  the  diamond, 
and  their  swaggering  assurance  was  not  con- 
ducive to  hope  for  the  Worcesters.  I  wondered 
how  many  of  that  vast,  noisy  audience,  intent  on 
the  day's  sport,  even  had  a  thought  of  what  pain 
and  toil  it  meant  to  my  players.  The  Buffalo  men 
were  in  good  shape;  they  had  been  lucky;  they 
were  at  the  top  of  their  stride,  and  that  made  all 
the  difference. 

At  any  rate,  there  were  a  few  faithful  little 
women  in  the  grand  stand — Milly  and  Nan  and 
Rose  Stringer  and  Kate  Bogart — who  sat  with 
compressed  lips  and  hoped  and  prayed  for  that 
game  to  begin  and  end. 

The  gong  called  off  the  practice,  and  Spears, 
taking  the  field,  yelled  gruff  encouragement  to  his 
men.  Umpire  Carter  brushed  off  the  plate  and 
tossed  a  white  ball  to  Rube  and  called:  "Play!" 
The  bleachers  set  up  an  exultant,  satisfied  shout 
and  sat  down  to  wait. 

Schultz  toed  the  plate  and  watched  the  Rube 
pitch  a  couple.  There  seemed  to  be  no  diminution 
of  the  great  pitcher 's  speed  and  both  balls  cut  the 


50         THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

plate.  Schultz  clipped  the  next  one  down  the  third- 
base  line.  Bogart  trapped  it  close  to  the  bag,  and 
got  it  away  underhand,  beating  the  speedy  runner 
by  a  nose.  It  was  a  pretty  play  to  start  with,  and 
the  spectators  were  not  close-mouthed  in  appre- 
ciation. The  short,  stocky  Carl  ambled  up  to 
bat,  and  I  heard  him  call  the  Rube  something.  It 
was  not  a  friendly  contest,  this  deciding  game  be- 
tween Buffalo  and  Worcester. 

"Bing  one  close  to  his  swelled  nut!"  growled 
Spears  to  the  Rube. 

Carl  chopped  a  bouncing  grounder  through 
short  and  Ash  was  after  it  like  a  tiger,  but  it  was 
a  hit.  The  Buffalo  contingent  opened  up.  Then 
Manning  faced  the  Rube,  and  he,  too,  vented  sar- 
casm. It  might  not  have  been  heard  by  the  slow, 
imperturbable  pitcher  for  all  the  notice  he  took. 
Carl  edged  off  first,  slid  back  twice,  got  a  third 
start,  and  on  the  Rube's  pitch  was  off  for  second 
base  with  the  lead  that  always  made  him  danger- 
ous. Manning  swung  vainly,  and  Gregg  snapped 
a  throw  to  Mullaney.  Ball  and  runner  got  to  the 
bag  apparently  simultaneously ;  the  umpire  called 
Carl  out,  and  the  crowd  uttered  a  quick  roar  of 
delight. 

The  next  pitch  to  Manning  was  a  strike.  Rube 
was  not  wasting  any  balls,  a  point  I  noted  with 
mingled  fear  and  satisfaction.  For  he  might  have 
felt  that  he  had  no  strength  to  spare  that  day  and 
so  could  not  try  to  work  the  batters.  Again  he 


THE   KUBE'S   PENNANT  51 

swung,  and  Manning  rapped  a  long  line  fly  over 
McCall.  As  the  little  left  fielder  turned  at  the 
sound  of  the  hit  and  sprinted  ont,  his  lameness 
was  certainly  not  in  evidence.  He  was  the  swift- 
est runner  in  the  league  and  always  when  He  got 
going  the  crowd  rose  in  wild  clamor  to  watch  him. 
Mac  took  that  fly  right  off  the  foul  flag  in  deep 
left,  and  the  bleachers  dinned  their  pleasure. 

The  teams  changed  positions.  "Fellers,"  said 
Spears,  savagely,  "we  may  be  a  bunged-up  lot  of 
stiffs,  but,  say!  We  can  hit!  If  yon  love  yonr 
old  captain — sting  the  ball!" 

Vane,  the  Bison  pitcher,  snrely  had  his  work 
cut  out  for  him.  For  one  sympathetic  moment  I 
saw  his  part  through  his  eyes.  My  "Worcester 
veterans,  long  used  to  being  under  fire,  were  re- 
lentlessly bent  on  taking  that  game.  It  showed 
in  many  ways,  particularly  in  their  silence,  be- 
cause they  were  seldom  a  silent  team.  McCall 
hesitated  a  moment  over  his  bats.  Then,  as  he 
picked  up  the  lightest  one,  I  saw  his  jaw  set,  and 
I  knew  he  intended  to  bnnt.  He  was  lame,  yet  he 
meant  to  beat  out  an  infield  hit.  He  went  up 
scowling. 

Vane  had  an  old  head,  and  he  had  a  varied 
assortment  of  balls.  For  Mac  he  used  an  under- 
hand curve,  rising  at  the  plate  and  curving  in  to 
the  left-hander.  Mac  stepped  back  and  let  it  go. 
"That's  the  place,  Bo,"  cried  the  Buffalo  infield- 
ers.  y"Keep  'em  close  on  the  Crab."  Eager  and 


52         THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

fierce  as  McCall  was,  he  let  pitch  after  pitch  go 
by  till  he  had  three  halls  and  two  strikes.  Still 
the  heady  Vane  sent  up  another  pitch  similar  to 
the  others.  Mac  stepped  forward  in  the  box, 
dropped  his  bat  on  the  ball,  and  leaped  down  the 
line  toward  first  base.  Vane  came  rushing  in  for 
the  bunt,  got  it  and  threw.  Bnt  as  the  speeding 
ball  neared  the  baseman,  Mac  stretched  out  into 
the  air  and  shot  for  the  bag.  By  a  fraction  of  a 
second  he  beat  the  ball.  It  was  one  of  his  demon- 
slides.  He  knew  that  the  chances  favored  his  be- 
ing crippled;  we  all  knew  that  some  day  Mac 
would  slide  recklessly  once  too  often.  But  that, 
too,  is  all  in  the  game  and  in  the  spirit  of  a  great 
player. 

"We're  on,"  said  Spears;  "now  keep  with 
him." 

By  that  the  captain  meant  that  Mac  would  go 
'down,  and  Ashwell  would  hit  with  the  run. 

When  Vane  pitched,  little  McCall  was  flitting 
toward  second.  The  Bison  shortstop  started  for 
the  bag,  and  Ash  hit  square  through  his  tracks. 
'A  rolling  cheer  burst  from  the  bleachers,  and 
swelled  till  McCall  overran  third  base  and  was 
thrown  back  by  the  coacher.  Stringer  hurried 
forward  with  his  big  bat. 

"Oh!  My!"  yelled  a  fan,  and  he  voiced  my 
sentiments  exactly.  Here  we  would  score,  and  be 
one  run  closer  to  that  dearly  bought  pennant. 

How  well  my  men  worked  together!     As  the 


THE   RUBE'S   PENNANT  53 

pitcher  let  the  ball  go,  Ash  was  digging  for  sec- 
ond and  Mac  was  shooting  plateward.  They 
played  on  the  chance  of  Stringer's  hitting* 
Stringer  swung,  the  bat  cracked,  we  heard  a  thud 
somewhere,  and  then  Manning,  half  knocked  over, 
was  fumbling  for  the  ball.  He  had  knocked  down 
a  terrific  drive  with  his  mitt,  and  he  got  the  ball 
in  time  to  put  Stringer  out.  But  Mac  scored  and 
Ash  drew  a  throw  to  third'base  and  beat  it.  He 
had  a  bad  ankle,  but  no  one  noticed  it  in  that  dar- 
ing run. 

''Watch  me  paste  one!"  said  Captain  Spears, 
as  he  spat  several  yards.  He  batted  out  a  fly  so 
long  and  high  and  far  that,  slow  as  he  was,  he  had 
nearly  run  to  second  base  when  Carl  made  the 
catch.  Ash  easily  scored  on  the  throw-in.  Then 
Bogart  sent  one  skipping  over  second,  and  Tread- 
well,  scooping  it  on  the  run,  completed  a  play  that 
showed  why  he  was  considered  the  star  of  the 
Bison  infield. 

"Two  runs,  fellers!"  said  Spears.  "That's 
some!  Push  'em  over,  Rube." 

The  second  inning  somewhat  quickened  the 
pace.  Even  the  Rube  worked  a  little  faster.  Ellis 
lined  to  Cairns  in  right;  Treadwell  fouled  two 
balls  and  had  a  called  strike,  and  was  out;  Me- 
Knight  hit  a  low  fly  over  short,  then  Bud  Wiler 
sent  one  between  Spears  and  Mullaney.  Spears 
went  for  it  while  the  Rube  with  giant  strides  ran 
to  cover  first  base.  Between  them  they  got  Bud, 


54         THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

but  it  was  only  because  he  was  heavy  and  slow 
on  his  feet. 

In  our  half  of  that  inning  Mullaney,  Gregg  and 
Cairns  went  out  in  one,  two,  three  order. 

With  Pannell  up,  I  saw  that  the  Eube  held  in 
on  his  speed,  or  else  he  was  tiring.  Pannell  hit 
the  second  slow  ball  for  two  bases.  Vane  sacri- 
ficed, and  then  the  redoubtable  Schultz  came  up. 
He  appeared  to  be  in  no  hurry  to  bat.  Then  I 
saw  that  the  foxy  Buffalo  players  were  working 
to  tire  the  Rube.  They  had  the  situation  figured. 
But  they  were  no  wiser  than  old  Spears. 

"Make  'em  hit,  Rube.  Push  'em  straight  over. 
Never  mind  the  corners.  We  don't  care  for  a 
few  runs.  We'll  hit  this  game  out." 

Shultz  flied  to  Mac,  who  made  a  beautiful  throw 
to  the  plate  too  late  to  catch  Pannell.  Carl  de- 
liberately bunted  to  the  right  of  the  Rube  and  it 
cost  the  big  pitcher  strenuous  effort  to  catch  his 
man. 

"We  got  the  Rube  waggin'!"  yelled  a  Buffalo 
player. 

Manning  tripled  down  the  left  foul  line — a  hit 
the  bleachers  called  a  screamer.  When  Ellis 
came  up,  it  looked  like  a  tie  score,  and  when  the 
Rube  pitched  it  was  plain  that  he  was  tired.  The 
Bisons  yelled  their  assurance  of  this  and  the 
audience  settled  into  quiet.  Ellis  batted  a 
scorcher  that  looked  good  for  a  hit.  But  the  fast 
Ashwell  was  moving  with  the  ball,  and  he  plunged 


THE   BUBE'S   PENNANT  55 

lengthwise  to  get  it  square  in  his  glove.  The  hit 
had  been  so  sharp  that  he  had  time  to  get  np  and 
make  the  throw  to  beat  the  runner.  The  bleachers 
thundered  at  the  play. 

"You're  up,  Bube,"  called  Spears.  "Lam  one 
out  of  the  lot!" 

The  Bube  was  an  uncertain  batter.  There  was 
never  any  telling  what  he  might  do,  for  he  had 
spells  of  good  and  bad  hitting.  But  when  he  did 
get  his  bat  on  the  ball  it  meant  a  chase  for  some 
fielder.  He  went  up  swinging  his  huge  club,  and 
he  hit  a  fly  that  would  have  been  an  easy  home  run 
for  a  fast  man.  But  the  best  Bube  could  do  was 
to  reach  third  base.  This  was  certainly  good 
enough,  as  the  bleachers  loudly  proclaimed,  and 
another  tally  for  us  seemed  sure. 

McCall  bunted  toward  third,  another  of  his 
teasers.  The  Bube  would  surely  have  scored  had 
he  started  with  the  ball,  but  he  did  not  try  and 
missed  a  chance.  Wiler,  of  course,  held  the  ball, 
and  Mac  got  to  first  without  special  effort.  He 
went  down  on  the  first  pitch.  Then  Ash  lined  to 
Carl.  The  Bube  waited  till  the  ball  was  caught 
and  started  for  home.  The  crowd  screamed,  the 
Bube  ran  for  all  he  was  worth  and  Carl's  throw 
to  the  plate  shot  in  low  and  true.  Ellis  blocked 
the  Bube  and  tagged  him  out. 

It  looked  to  the  bleachers  as  if  Ellis  had  been 
unnecessarily  rough,  and  they  hissed  and  stormed 
disapproval.  As  for  me,  I  knew  the  Bisons  were 


56         THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

losing  no  chance  to  wear  ont  my  pitcher.  Stringer 
fouled  out  with  Mac  on  third,  and  it  made  him  so 
angry  that  he  threw  his  bat  toward  the  bench, 
making  some  of  the  boys  skip  lively. 

The  next  three  innings,  as  far  as  scoring  was 
concerned,  were  all  for  Buffalo.  But  the  Wor- 
cester infield  played  magnificent  ball,  holding  their 
opponents  to  one  run  each  inning. 

That  made  the  score  4  to  2  in  favor  of  Buffalo. 

In  the  last  half  of  the  sixth,  with  Ash  on  first 
base  and  two  men  out,  old  Spears  hit  another  of 
his  lofty  flies,  and  this  one  went  over  the  fence 
and  tied  the  score.  How  the  bleachers  roared! 
It  was  full  two  minutes  before  they  quieted  down. 
To  make  it  all  the  more  exciting,  Bogart  hit 
safely,  ran  like  a  deer  to  third  on  Mullaney's 
grounder,  which  Wiler  knocked  down,  and  scored 
on  a  passed  ball.  Gregg  ended  the  inning  by 
striking  out. 

"Get  at  the  Rube!"  boomed  Ellis,  the  Bison 
captain.  '  *  We  '11  have  him  up  in  the  air  soon.  Get 
in  the  game  now,  you  stickers!" 

Before  I  knew  what  had  happened,  the  Bisons 
had  again  tied  the  score.  They  were  indomitable. 
They  grew  stronger  all  the  time.  A  stroke  of 
good  luck  now  would  clinch  the  game  for  them. 
The  Rube  was  beginning  to  labor  in  the  box ;  Ash- 
well  was  limping;  Spears  looked  as  if  he  would 
drop  any  moment;  McCall  could  scarcely  walk. 
But  if  the  ball  came  his  way  he  could  still  run. 


THE   EUBE'S    PENNANT  57 

Nevertheless,  I  never  saw  any  finer  fielding  than 
these  cripped  players  executed  that  inning. 

"Ash — Mac — can  you  hold  out?"  I  asked,  when 
they  limped  in.  I  received  glances  of  scorn  for 
my  question.  Spears,  however,  was  not  san- 
guine. 

"I'll  stick  pretty  much  if  somethin'  doesn't 
happen, "  he  said;  "but  I'm  all  in.  I'll  need  a 
runner  if  I  get  to  first  this  time." 

Spears  lumbered  down  to  first  base  on  an  in- 
field hit  and  the  heavy  Manning  gave  him  the  hip. 
Old  Spears  went  down,  and  I  for  one  knew  he 
was  out  in  more  ways  than  that  signified  by 
Carter's  sharp:  "Out!" 

The  old  war-horse  gathered  himself  up  slowly 
and  painfully,  and  with  his  arms  folded  and  his 
jaw  protruding,  he  limped  toward  the  umpire. 

"Did  you  call  me  out?"  he  asked,  in  a  voice 
plainly  audible  to  any  one  on  the  field. 

"Yes,"  snapped  Carter. 

"What  for?  I  beat  the  ball,  an'  Mannin' 
played  dirty  with  me — gave  me  the  hip." 

"I  called  you  out." 

"But  I  wasn't  out!" 

' '  Shut  up  now !  Get  off  the  diamond ! ' '  ordered 
Carter,  peremptorily. 

"What?  Me?  Say,  I'm  captain  of  this  team. 
Can't  I  question  a  decision?" 

"Not  mine.  Spears,  you're  delaying  the 
game." 


58         THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

"I  tell  yon  it  was  a  rotten  decision,"  yelled 
Spears.  The  bleachers  agreed  with  him. 

Carter  grew  red  in  the  face.  He  and  Spears 
had  before  then  met  in  field  squabbles,  and  he 
showed  it. 

"Fifty  dollars!" 

"More!   Ton  cheap-skate — yon  piker!   More!" 

"It's  a  hundred!" 

"Pnt  me  ont  of  the  game!"  roared  Spears. 

' '  Yon  bet !    Hnrry  now— skedaddle ! ' ' 

"Rob-b-ber!"  bawled  Spears. 

Then  he  labored  slowly  toward  the  bench,  all 
red,  and  yet  with  perspiration,  his  demeanor  one 
of  ontraged  dignity.  The  great  crowd,  as  one 
man,  stood  np  and  yelled  hoarsely  at  Carter,  and 
hissed  and  railed  at  him.  When  Spears  got  to 
the  bench  he  sat  down  beside  me  as  if  in  pain,  bnt 
ihe  was  smiling. 

"Con,  I  was  all  in,  an'  knowin*  I  couldn't  play 
any  longer,  thought  I'd  try  to  scare  Carter.  Say, 
he  was  white  in  the  face.  If  we  play  into  a  close 
decision  now,  hell  give  it  to  as." 

Bogart  and  Mullaney  batted  out  in  short  order, 
and  once  more  the  aggressive  Bisons  hurried  in 
for  their  turn.  Spears  sent  Cairns  to  first  base 
and  Jones  to  right.  The  Rube  lobbed  up  his  slow 
ball.  In  that  tight  pinch  he  showed  his  splendid 
nerve.  Two  Buffalo  players,  over-anxious, 
popped  up  flies.  The  Rube  kept  on  pitching  the 
slow  curve  until  it  was  hit  safely.  Then  heav- 


THE   EUBE'S   PENNANT  59 

ing  his  shoulders  with  all  his  might  he  got  all 
the  motion  possible  into  his  swing  and  let  drive. 
He  had  almost  all  of  his  old  speed,  but  it  hurt 
me  to  see  him  work  with  such  desperate  effort. 
He  struck  Wiler  out. 

He  came  stooping  into  the  bench,  apparently 
deaf  to  the  stunning  round  of  applause.  Every 
player  on  the  team  had  a  word  for  the  Rube. 
There  was  no  quitting  in  that  bunch,  and  if  I  ever 
saw  victory  on  the  stern  faces  of  ball  players  it 
was  in  that  moment. 

"We  haven't  opened  up  yet.  Mebbee  this  is 
the  innin'.  If  it  ain't,  the  next  is,"  said  Spears. 

With  the  weak  end  of  the  batting  list  up,  there 
seemed  little  hope  of  getting  a  run  on  Vane  that 
inning.  He  had  so  much  confidence  that  he  put 
the  ball  over  for  Gregg,  who  hit  out  of  the  reach 
of  the  infield.  Again  Vane  sent  up  his  straight 
ball,  no  doubt  expecting  Cairns  to  hit  into  a 
double  play.  But  Cairns  surprised  Vane  and 
everybody  else  by  poking  a  safety  past  first  base. 
The  fans  began  to  howl  and  pound  and  whistle. 

The  Rube  strode  to  bat.  The  infield  closed  in 
for  a  bunt,  but  the  Rube  had  no  orders  for  that 
style  of  play.  Spears  had  said  nothing  to  him. 
Vane  lost  his  nonchalance  and  settled  down.  He 
cut  loose  with  all  his  speed.  Rube  stepped  out, 
suddenly  whirled,  then  tried  to  dodge,  but  the  ball 
hit  him  fair  in  the  back.  Rube  sagged  in  his 
tracks,  then  straightened  up,  and  walked  slowly 


60         THE   BEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

to  first  base.  Score  5  to  5,  bases  full,  no  outs, 
McCall  at  bat.  I  sat  dumb  on  the  bench,  thrilling 
and  shivering.  McCall!  Ashwell!  Stringer  to 
bat! 

"Play  it  safe!  Hold  the  bags!"  yelled  the 
coacher. 

McCall  fairly  spouted  defiance  as  he  faced 
Vane. 

' '  Pitch !    It 's  all  off !    An '  you  know  it ! ' ' 

If  Vane  knew  that,  he  showed  no  evidence  of 
it.  His  face  was  cold,  unsmiling,  rigid.  He  had 
to  pitch  to  McCall,  the  fastest  man  in  the  league ; 
to  Ashwell,  the  best  bunter ;  to  Stringer,  the  cham- 
pion batter.  It  was  a  supreme  test  for  a  great 
pitcher.  There  was  only  one  kind  of  a  ball  that 
McCall  was  not  sure  to  hit,  and  that  was  a  high 
curve,  in  close.  Vane  threw  it  with  all  his  power. 
Carter  called  it  a  strike.  Again  Vane  swung  and 
his  arm  fairly  cracked.  Mac  fouled  the  ball.  The 
third  was  wide.  Slowly,  with  lifting  breast,  Vane 
got  ready,  whirled  savagely  and  shot  up  the  ball. 
McCall  struck  out. 

As  the  Buffalo  players  crowed  and  the  audience 
groaned  it  was  worthy  of  note  that  little  McCall 
showed  no  temper.  Yet  he  had  failed  to  grasp  a 
great  opportunity. 

"Ash,  I  couldn't  see  'em,"  he  said,  as  he  passed 
to  the  bench.  "Speed,  whew!  look  out  for  it. 
He's  been  savin*  up.  Hit  quick,  an*  you'll  get 
him." 


THE   RUBE'S    PENNANT  61 

Ashwell  bent  over  the  plate  and  glowered  at 
Vane. 

"Pitch!  It's  all  off!  An'  you  know  it!"  he 
hissed,  using  Mac's  words. 

Ashwell,  too,  was  left-handed;  he,  too,  was  ex- 
tremely hard  to  pitch  to;  and  if  he  had  a  weak- 
ness that  any  of  us  ever  discovered,  it  was  a  slow 
curve  and  change  of  pace.  But  I  doubted  if  Vane 
would  dare  to  use  slow  balls  to  Ash  at  that  critical 
moment.  I  had  yet  to  learn  something  of  Vane. 
He  gave  Ash  a  slow,  wide-sweeping  sidewheeler, 
that  curved  round  over  the  plate.  Ash  always 
took  a  strike,  so  this  did  not  matter.  Then  Vane 
used  his  deceptive  change  of  pace,  sending  up  a 
curve  that  just  missed  Ash's  bat  as  he  swung. 

' '  Oh !    A-h-h !  hit ! "  wailed  the  bleachers. 

Vane  doubled  up  like  a  contortionist,  and  shot 
up  a  lightning-swift  drop  that  fooled  Ash  com- 
pletely. Again  the  crowd  groaned.  Score  tied, 
bases  full,  two  out,  Stringer  at  bat ! 

"It's  up  to  you,  String,"  called  Ash,  stepping 
aside. 

Stringer  did  not  call  out  to  Vane.  That  was 
not  his  way.  He  stood  tense  and  alert,  bat  on  his 
shoulder,  his  powerful  form  braced,  and  he 
waited.  The  outfielders  trotted  over  toward  right 
field,  and  the  infielders  played  deep,  calling  out 
warnings  and  encouragement  to  the  pitcher. 
Stringer  had  no  weakness,  and  Vane  knew  this. 
Nevertheless  he  did  not  manifest  any  uneasiness, 


62         THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

and  pitched  the  first  ball  without  any  extra  mo- 
tion. Carter  called  it  a  strike.  I  saw  Stringer 
sink  down  slightly  and  grow  tenser  all  over.  I 
believe  that  moment  was  longer  for  me  than  for 
either  the  pitcher  or  the  batter.  Vane  took  his 
time,  watched  the  base  runners,  feinted  to  throw 
to  catch  them,  and  then  delivered  the  ball  toward 
the  plate  with  the  limit  of  his  power. 

Stringer  hit  the  ball.  As  long  as  I  live,  I  will 
see  that  glancing  low  liner.  Shultz,  by  a  wonder- 
ful play  in  deep  center,  blocked  the  ball  and 
thereby  saved  it  from  being  a  home  run.  But 
when  Stringer  stopped  on  second  base,  all  the 
runners  had  scored. 

A  shrill,  shrieking,  high-pitched  yell!  The 
bleachers  threatened  to  destroy  the  stands  and 
also  their  throats  in  one  long  revel  of  baseball 
madness. 

Jones,  batting  in  place  of  Spears,  had  gone 
up  and  fouled  out  before  the  uproar  had  sub- 
sided. 

" Fellers,  I  reckon  I  feel  easier,"  said  the  Rube. 
It  was  the  only  time  I  had  ever  heard  him  speak 
to  the  players  at  such  a  stage. 

"Only  six  batters,  Rube,"  called  out  Spears. 
"Boys,  it's  a  grand  game,  an'  it's  our'n!" 

The  Rube  had  enough  that  inning  to  dispose  of 
the  lower  half  of  the  Buffalo  list  without  any 
alarming  bids  for  a  run.  And  in  our  half,  Bogart 
and  Mullaney  hit  vicious  ground  balls  that  gave 


THE   KUBE'S   PENNANT  63 

Treadwell  and  Wiler  opportunities  for  superb 
plays.  Carl,  likewise,  made  a  beautiful  running 
catch  of  Gregg's  line  fly.  The  Bisons  were  still 
in  the  game,  still  capable  of  pulling  it  out  at  the 
last  moment. 

When  Shultz  stalked  up  to  the  plate  I  shut  my 
eyes  a  moment,  and  so  still  was  it  that  the  field 
and  stands  might  have  been  empty.  Yet,  though 
I  tried,  I  could  not  keep  my  eyes  closed.  I  opened 
them  to  watch  the  Rube.  I  knew  Spears  felt  the 
same  as  I,  for  he  was  blowing  like  a  porpoise  and 
muttering  to  himself:  "Mebee  the  Eube  won't 
last  an'  I've  no  one  to  put  in!" 

The  Rube  pitched  with  heavy,  violent  effort. 
He  had  still  enough  speed  to  be  dangerous.  But 
after  the  manner  of  ball  players  Shultz  and  the 
coachers  mocked  him. 

"Take  all  you  can,"  called  "Ellis  to  Shultz. 

Every  pitch  lessened  the  Rube's  strength  and 
these  wise  opponents  knew  it.  Likewise  the  Rube 
himself  knew,  and  never  had  he  shown  better  head 
work  than  in  this  inning.  If  he  were  to  win,  he 
must  be  quick.  So  he  wasted  not  a  ball.  The  first 
pitch  and  the  second,  delivered  breast  high  and 
fairly  over  the  plate,  beautiful  balls  to  hit,  Shultz 
watched  speed  by.  He  swung  hard  on  the  third 
and  the  crippled  Ashwell  dove  for  it  in  a  cloud 
of  dust,  got  a  hand  in  front  of  it,  but  uselessly, 
for  the  hit  was  safe.  The  crowd  cheered  that 
splendid  effort. 


64         THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

Carl  marched  to  bat,  and  he  swung  his  club  over 
the  plate  as  if  he  knew  what  to  expect.  "Come 
on,  Rube!"  he  shouted.  Wearily,  doggedly,  the 
Rube  whirled,  and  whipped  his  arm.  The  ball 
had  all  his  old  glancing  speed  and  it  was  a  strike. 
The  Eube  was  making  a  tremendous  effort. 
Again  he  got  his  body  in  convulsive  motion — two 
strikes!  Shultz  had  made  no  move  to  run,  nor 
had  Carl  made  any  move  to  hit.  These  veterans 
were  waiting.  The  Rube  had  pitched  five  strikes 
— could  he  last? 

"Now,  Carl!"  yelled  Ellis,  with  startling  sud- 
denness, as  the  Eube  pitched  again. 

Crack !  Carl  placed  that  hit  as  safely  through 
short  as  if  he  had  thrown  it.  McCall's  little  legs 
twinkled  as  he  dashed  over  the  grass.  He  had  to 
head  off  that  hit  and  he  ran  like  a  streak.  Down 
and  forward  he  pitched,  as  if  in  one  of  his  fierce 
slides,  and  he  got  his  body  in  front  of  the  ball, 
blocking  it,  and  then  he  rolled  over  and  over.  But 
he  jumped  up  and  lined  the  ball  to  Bogart,  almost 
catching  Shultz  at  third-base.  Then,  as  Mac  tried 
to  walk,  his  lame  leg  buckled  under  him,  and  down 
he  went,  and  out. 

"Call  time,"  I  called  to  Carter.  "McCall  is 
done.  .  .  .  Myers,  you  go  to  left  an'  for  Lord's 
sake  play  ball!" 

Stringer  and  Bogart  hurried  to  Mac  and,  lift- 
ing him  up  and  supporting  him  between  them 
with  his  arms  around  their  shoulders,  they  led 


THE   RUBE'S   PENNANT  65 

him  off  amid  cheers  from  the  stands.  Mao  was 
white  with  pain. 

"Naw,  I  won't  go  off  the  field.  Leave  me  on 
the  bench,"  he  said.  "Fight  'em  now.  It's  our 
game.  Never  mind  a  couple  of  runs." 

The  boys  ran  back  to  their  positions  and  Carter 
called  play.  Perhaps  a  little  delay  had  been  help- 
ful to  the  Rube.  Slowly  he  stepped  into  the  box 
and  watched  Shultz  at  third  and  Carl  at  second. 
There  was  not  much  probability  of  his  throwing 
to  catch  them  off  the  base,  but  enough  of  a  pos- 
sibility to  make  them  careful,  so  he  held  them 
close. 

The  Rube  pitched  a  strike  to  Manning,  then  an- 
other. That  made  eight  strikes  square  over  the 
plate  that  inning.  "What  magnificent  control !  It 
was  equaled  by  the  implacable  patience  of  those 
veteran  Bisons.  Manning  hit  the  next  ball  as 
hard  as  Carl  had  hit  his.  But  Mullaney  plunged 
down,  came  up  with  the  ball,  feinted  to  fool  Carl, 
then  let  drive  to  Gregg  to  catch  the  fleeting  Shultz. 
The  throw  went  wide,  but  Gregg  got  it,  and,  leap- 
ing lengthwise,  tagged  Shultz  out  a  yard  from  the 
plate. 

One  out.  Two  runners  on  bases.  The  bleachers 
rose  and  split  their  throats.  "Would  the  inning 
never  end? 

Spears  kept  telling  himself:  "They'll  score, 
but  we'll  win.  It's  our  game  I" 

I  had  a  sickening  fear  that  the  strange  con- 


66         THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

fidence  that  obsessed  the  "Worcester  players  had 
been  blind,  unreasoning  vanity. 

"Carl  will  steal,"  mattered  Spears.  "He 
can't  be  stopped." 

Spears  had  called  the  play.  The  Eube  tried  to 
hold  the  little  base-stealer  close  to  second,  but, 
after  one  attempt,  wisely  turned  to  his  hard  task 
of  making  the  Bisons  hit  and  hit  quickly.  Ellis 
let  the  ball  pass ;  Gregg  made  a  perfect  throw  to 
third;  Bogart  caught  the  ball  and  moved  like  a 
flash,  but  Carl  slid  under  his  hands  to  the  bag. 
Manning  ran  down  to  second.  The  Eube  pitched 
again,  and  this  was  his  tenth  ball  over  the  plate. 
Even  the  Buffalo  players  evinced  eloquent  appre- 
ciation of  the  Eube's  defence  at  this  last  stand. 

Then  Ellis  sent  a  clean  hit  to  right,  scoring  both 
Carl  and  Manning.  I  breathed  easier,  for  it 
seemed  with  those  two  runners  in,  the  Eube  had  a 
better  chance.  Treadwell  also  took  those  two 
runners  in,  the  Eube  had  a  way  those  Bisons 
waited.  They  had  their  reward,  for  the  Eube's 
speed  left  him.  When  he  pitched  again  the  ball 
had  control,  but  no  shoot.  Treadwell  hit  it  with 
all  his  strength.  Like  a  huge  cat  Ashwell  pounced 
upon  it,  ran  over  second  base,  forcing  Ellis,  and 
his  speedy  snap  to  first  almost  caught  Treadwell. 

Score  8  to  7.  Two  out.  Eunner  on  first.  One 
run  to  tie. 

In  my  hazy,  dimmed  vision  I  saw  the  Eube's 
pennant  waving  from  the  flag-pole. 


THE   KUBE'S   PENNANT  67 

"It's  our  game!"  howled  Spears  in  my  ear, 
for  the  noise  from  the  stands  was  deafening. 
"It's  our  pennant!" 

The  formidable  batting  strength  of  the  Bisons 
had  been  met,  not  without  disaster,  but  without 
defeat.  McKnight  came  up  for  Buffalo  and  the 
Eube  took  his  weary  swing.  The  batter  made  a 
terrific  lunge  and  hit  the  ball  with  a  solid  crack. 
It  lined  for  center. 

Suddenly  electrified  into  action,  I  leaped  Tip. 
That  hit!  It  froze  me  with  horror.  It  was  a 
home-run.  I  saw  Stringer  fly  toward  left  center. 
He  ran  like  something  wild.  I  saw  the  heavy 
Treadwell  lumbering  round  the  bases.  I  saw  Ash- 
well  run  out  into  center  field. 

"Ah-h!"  The  whole  audience  relieved  its 
terror  in  that  expulsion  of  suspended  breath. 
Stringer  had  leaped  high  to  knock  down  the  ball, 
saving  a  sure  home-run  and  the  game.  He  re- 
covered himself,  dashed  back  for  the  ball  and  shot 
it  to  Ash. 

When  Ash  turned  toward  the  plate,  Treadwell 
was  rounding  third  base.  A  tie  score  appeared 
inevitable.  I  saw  Ash's  armi  whip  and  the  ball 
shoot  forward,  leveled,  glancing,  beautiful  in  its 
flight.  The  crowd  saw  it,  and  the  silence  broke 
to  a  yell  that  rose  and  rose  as  the  ball  sped  in. 
That  yell  swelled  to  a  splitting  shriek,  and 
Treadwell  slid  in  the  dust,  and  the  ball  shot  into 
Gregg's  hands  all  at  the  same  instant. 


68         THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

Carter  waved  both  arms  upwards.  It  was  the 
umpire's  action  when  his  decision  went  against 
the  base-runner.  The  audience  rolled  up  one  great 
stenorian  cry. 

"Out!" 

I  collapsed  and  sank  back  upon  the  bench.  My 
confused  senses  received  a  dull  roar  of  pounding 
feet  and  dinning  voices  as  the  herald  of  victory. 
I  felt  myself  thinking  how  pleased  Milly  would  be. 
I  had  a  distinct  picture  in  my  mind  of  a  white 
cottage  on  a  hill,  no  longer  a  dream,  but  a  reality, 
made  possible  for  me  by  the  Rube's  winning  of 
the  pennant. 


THE   RUBE'S   HONEYMOON 

"HE'S  got  a  new  manager.  Watch  him  pitch 
now!"  That  was  what  Nan  Brown  said  to  me 
about  Rube  Hurtle,  my  great  pitcher,  and  I  took 
it  as  her  way  of  announcing  her  engagement. 

My  baseball  career  held  some  proud  moments, 
but  this  one,  wherein  I  realized  the  success  of  my 
matchmaking  plans,  was  certainly  the  proudest 
one.  So,  entirely  outside  of  the  honest  pleasure 
I  got  out  of  the  Rube's  happiness,  there  was 
reason  for  me  to  congratulate  myself.  He  was  a 
transformed  man,  so  absolutely  renewed,  so  wild 
with  joy,  that  on  the  strength  of  it,  I  decided  the 
pennant  for  Worcester  was  a  foregone  conclu- 
sion, and,  sure  of  the  money  promised  me  by  the 
directors,  Milly  and  I  began  to  make  plans  for 
the  cottage  upon  the  hill. 

The  Rube  insisted  on  pitching  Monday's  game 

against  the  Torontos,  and  although  poor  fielding 

gave  them  a  couple  of  runs,  they  never  had  a 

chance.    They  could  not  see  the  ball.    The  Rube 

69 


70         THE   KEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

Wrapped  it  around  their  necks  and  between  their 
wrists  and  straight  over  the  plate  with  snch  in- 
credible speed  that  they  might  just  as  well  have 
tried  to  bat  rifle  bullets. 

That  night  I  was  happy.  Spears,  my  veteran 
captain,  was  one  huge  smile;  Radbourne  quietly 
iassured  me  that  all  was  over  now  but  the  shout- 
ing ;  all  the  boys  were  happy. 

And  the  Rube  was  the  happiest  of  all.  At  the 
hotel  he  burst  out  with  his  exceeding  good  for- 
tune. He  and  Nan  were  to  be  married  upon  the 
Fourth  of  July! 

After  the  noisy  congratulations  were  over  and 
the  Rube  had  gone,  Spears  looked  at  me  and  I 
looked  at  him. 

"Con,"  said  he  soberly,  "we  just  can't  let  him 
get  married  on  the  Fourth. " 

"Why  not?  Sure  we  can.  We'll  help  him  get 
married.  I  tell  you  it'll  save  the  pennant  for  us. 
Look  how  he  pitched  today!  Nan  Brown  is  our 
salvation!" 

"See  here,  Con,  you've  got  softenin'  of  the 
brain,  too.  Where's  your  baseball  sense f  We've 
got  a  pennant  to  win.  By  July  Fourth  we'll  be 
close  to  the  lead  again,  an'  there's  that  three 
weeks'  trip  on  the  road,  the  longest  an'  hardest 
of  the  season.  We've  just  got  to  break  even  on 
that  trip.  You  know  what  that  means.  If  the 
Rube  marries  Nan — what  are  we  goin '  to  do  ?  We 
can't  leave  him  behind.  If  he  takes  Nan  with  us 


THE   EUBE'S   HONEYMOON  71 

— why  it'll  be  a  honeymoon!  An'  half  the  gang 
is  stuck  on  Nan  Brown!  An'  Nan  Brown  would 
flirt  in  her  bridal  veil!  .  .  .  Why  Con,  we're  up 
against  a  worse  proposition  than  ever." 

"Good  Heavens!  Cap.  You're  right,"  I 
groaned.  "I  never  thought  of  that.  We've  got 
to  postpone  the  wedding.  .  .  .  How  on  earth  can 
we?  I've  heard  her  tell  Milly  that.  She'll  never 
consent  to  it.  Say,  this '11  drive  me  to  drink." 

"All  I  got  to  say  is  this,  Con.  If  the  Eube 
takes  his  wife  on  that  trip  it's  goin'  to  be  an  all- 
fired  hummer.  Don't  you  forget  that." 

"I'm  not  likely  to.  But,  Spears,  the  point  is 
this — will  the  Rube  win  his  games?" 

"Figurin'  from  his  work  today,  I'd  gamble 
he '11  never  lose  another  game.  It  ain't  that.  I'm 
thinkin'  of  what  the  gang  will  do  to  him  an'  Nan 
on  the  cars  an'  at  the  hotels.  Oh!  Lord,  Con,  it 
ain't  possible  to  stand  for  that  honeymoon  trip! 
Just  think!" 

"If  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  Cap,  I  don't 
care  for  anything  but  the  games.  If  we  get  in  the 
lead  and  stay  there  I'll  stand  for  anything.  .  .  . 
Couldn't  the  gang  be  coaxed  or  bought  off  to  let 
the  Eube  and  Nan  alone?" 

"Not  on  your  life!  There  ain't  enough  love  or 
money  on  earth  to  stop  them.  It'll  be  awful. 
Mind,  I'm  not  responsible.  Don't  you  go  holdin' 
me  responsible.  In  all  my  years  of  baseball  I 
never  went  on  a  trip  with  a  bride  in  the  game. 


72         THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

That's  new  on  me,  an'  I  never  heard  of  it.  I'd  be 
bad  enough  if  he  wasn't  a  rnbe  an'  if  she  wasn't 
a  crazy  girl-fan  an'  a  flirt  to  boot,  an'  with  half 
the  boys  in  love  with  her,  but  as  it  is " 

Spears  gave  up  and,  gravely  shaking  his  head, 
he  left  me.  I  spent  a  little  while  in  sober  reflec- 
tion, and  finally  came  to  the  conclusion  that,  in  my 
desperate  ambition  to  win  the  pennant,  I  would 
have  taken  half  a  dozen  rube  pitchers  and  their 
baseball-made  brides  on  the  trip,  if  by  so  doing 
I  could  increase  the  percentage  of  games  won. 
Nevertheless,  I  wanted  to  postpone  the  Kube's 
wedding  if  it  was  possible,  and  I  went  out  to  see 
Milly  and  asked  her  to  help  us.  But  for  once  in 
her  life  Milly  turned  traitor. 

"Connie,  you  don't  want  to  postpone  it.  Why, 
how  perfectly  lovely!  .  .  .  Mrs.  Stringer  will  go 
on  that  trip  and  Mrs.  Bogart.  .  .  .  Connie,  I'm 
going  too!" 

She  actually  jumped  up  and  down  in  glee.  That 
was  the  woman  in  her.  It  takes  a  wedding  to  get 
a  woman.  I  remonstrated  and  pleaded  and  com- 
manded, all  to  no  purpose.  Milly  intended  to  go 
on  that  trip  to  see  the  games,  and  the  fun,  and  the 
honeymoon. 

She  coaxed  so  hard  that  I  yielded.  Thereupon 
she  called  up  Mrs.  Stringer  on  the  telephone,  and 
of  course  found  that  young  woman  just  as  eager 
as  she  was.  For  my  part,  I  threw  anxiety  and 
care  to  the  four  winds,  and  decided  to  be  as  happy 


THE   RUBE'S   HONEYMOON  73 

as  any  of  them.  The  pennant  was  mine!  Some- 
thing kept  ringing  that  in  my  ears.  With  the 
Rube  working  his  iron  arm  for  the  edification  of 
his  proud  Nancy  Brown,  there  was  extreme  like- 
lihood of  divers  shut-outs  and  humiliating  defeats 
for  some  Eastern  League  teams. 

How  well  I  calculated  became  a  matter  of  base- 
ball history  during  that  last  week  of  June.  We 
won  six  straight  games,  three  of  which  fell  to  the 
Rube's  credit.  His  opponents  scored  four  runs 
in  the  three  games,  against  the  nineteen  we  made. 
Upon  July  1,  Radbourne  beat  Providence  and 
Cairns  won  the  second  game.  We  now  had  a 
string  of  eight  victories.  Sunday  we  rested,  and 
Monday  was  the  Fourth,  with  morning  and  after- 
noon games  with  Buffalo. 

Upon  the  morning  of  the  Fourth,  I  looked  for 
the  Rube  at  the  hotel,  but  could  not  find  him.  He 
did  not  show  up  at  the  grounds  when  the  other 
boys  did,  and  I  began  to  worry.  It  was  the  Rube 's 
turn  to  pitch  and  we  were  neck  and  neck  with  Buf- 
falo for  first  place.  If  we  won  both  games  we 
would  go  ahead  of  our  rivals.  So  I  was  all  on 
edge,  and  kept  going  to  the  dressing-room  to  see 
if  the  Rube  had  arrived.  He  came,  finally,  when 
all  the  boys  were  dressed,  and  about  to  go  out  for 
practice.  He  had  on  a  new  suit,  a  tailor-made  suit 
at  that,  and  he  looked  fine.  There  was  about  him 
a  kind  of  strange  radiance.  He  stated  simply 
that  he  had  arrived  late  because  he  had  just  been 


74         THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

married.    Before  congratulations  were  out  of  onr 
mouths,  he  turned  to  me. 

"Con,  I  want  to  pitch  both  games  today/'  he 
said. 

"What!  Say,  Whit,  Buffalo  is  on  the  card  to- 
day and  we  are  only  three  points  behind  them. 
If  we  win  both  we'll  be  leading  the  league  once 
more.  I  don't  know  about  pitching  you  both 
games." 

"I  reckon  we'll  be  in  the  lead  tonight  then," 
he  replied,  "for  I'll  win  them  both." 

I  was  about  to  reply  when  Dave,  the  ground- 
keeper,  called  me  to  the  door,  saying  there  was  a 
man  to  see  me.  I  went  out,  and  there  stood  Mor- 
risey,  manager  of  the  Chicago  American  League 
team.  We  knew  each  other  well  and  exchanged 
greetings. 

"Con,  I  dropped  off  to  see  you  about  this  new 
pitcher  of  yours,  the  one  they  call  the  Rube.  I 
want  to  see  him  work.  I've  heard  he's  pretty 
fast.  How  about  it?" 

"Wait — till  you  see  him  pitch,"  I  replied.  I 
could  scarcely  get  that  much  out,  for  Morrisey's 
presence  meant  a  great  deal  and  I  did  not  want 
to  betray  my  elation. 

"Any  strings  on  him?"  queried  the  big  league 
manager,  sharply. 

"Well,  Morrisey,  not  exactly.  I  can  give  you 
the  first  call.  You'll  have  to  bid  high,  though. 
Just  wait  till  you  see  him  work." 


THE   EUBE'S   HONEYMOON  75 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  that.  My  scout  was  over 
here  watching  him  pitch  and  says  he's  a  wonder. " 

What  luck  it  was  that  Morrisey  should  have 
come  upon  this  day !  I  could  hardly  contain  my- 
self. Almost  I  began  to  spend  the  money  I  would 
get  for  selling  the  Eube  to  the  big  league  man- 
ager. We  took  seats  in  the  grand  stand,  as  Mor- 
risey did  not  want  to  be  seen  by  any  players,  and 
I  stayed  there  with  him  until  the  gong  sounded. 
There  was  a  big  attendance.  I  looked  all  over 
the  stand  for  Nan,  but  she  was  lost  in  the  gay 
crowd.  But  when  I  went  down  to  the  bench  I 
saw  her  up  in  my  private  box  with  Milly.  It  took 
no  second  glance  to  see  that  Nan  Brown  was  a 
bride  and  glorying  in  the  fact. 

Then,  in  the  absorption  of  the  game,  I  became 
oblivious  to  Milly  and  Nan ;  the  noisy  crowd ;  the 
giant  fire-crackers  and  the  smoke ;  to  the  presence 
of  Morrisey ;  to  all  except  the  Rube  and  my  team 
and  their  opponents.  Fortunately  for  my  hopes, 
the  game  opened  with  characteristic  Worcester 
dash.  Little  McCall  doubled,  Ashwell  drew  his 
base  on  four  wide  pitches,  and  Stringer  drove  the 
ball  over  the  right-field  fence — three  runs ! 

Three  runs  were  enough  to  win  that  game.  Of 
all  the  exhibitions  of  pitching  with  which  the  Eube 
had  favored  us,  this  one  was  the  finest.  It  was 
perhaps  not  so  much  his  marvelous  speed  and 
unhittable  curves  that  made  the  game  one  mem- 
orable in  the  annals  of  pitching;  it  was  his  per- 


76         THE   BEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

feet  control  in  the  placing  of  balls,  in  the  cutting 
of  corners ;  in  his  absolute  implacable  mastery  of 
the  situation.  Buffalo  was  unable  to  find  him  at 
all.  The  game  was  swift,  short,  decisive,  witH 
the  score  5  to  0  in  our  favor.  But  the  score  did 
not  tell  all  of  the  Eube's  work  that  morning.  He 
shut  out  Buffalo  without  a  hit,  or  a  scratch,  the 
first  no-hit,  no-run  game  of  the  year.  He  gave 
no  base  on  balls ;  not  a  Buffalo  player  got  to  first 
base ;  only  one  fly  went  to  the  outfield. 

For  once  I  forgot  Milly  after  a  game,  and  I 
hurried  to  find  Morrisey,  and  carried  him  off  to 
have  dinner  with  me. 

"Your  rube  is  a  wonder,  and  that's  a  fact,"  he 
said  to  me  several  times.  "Where  on  earth  did 
you  get  him?  Connelly,  he's  my  meat.  Do  you 
understand?  Can  you  let  me  have  him  right 
now?" 

"No,  Morrisey,  I've  got  the  pennant  to  win 
first.  Then  I'll  sell  him." 

"How  much?  Do  you  hear?  How  much?" 
Morrisey  hammered  the  table  with  his  fist  and 
his  eyes  gleamed. 

Carried  away  as  I  was  by  his  vehemence,  I  was 
yet  able  to  calculate  shrewdly,  and  I  decided  to 
name  a  very  high  price,  from  which  I  could  come 
down  and  still  make  a  splendid  deal. 

"How  much?"  demanded  Morrisey. 

"Five  thousand  dollars,"  I  replied,  and  gulped 
when  I  got  the  words  out. 


THE   RUBE'S   HONEYMOON  77 

Morrisey  never  batted  an  eye.  • 
"Waiter,  quick,  pen  and  ink  and  paper!" 
Presently  my  hand,  none  too  firm,  was  signing 
my  name  to  a  contract  whereby  I  was  to  sell  my 
pitcher  for  five  thousand  dollars  at  the  close  of 
the  current  season.  I  never  saw  a  man  look  so 
pleased  as  Morrisey  when  he  folded  that  contract 
and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  He  bade  me  good-bye 
and  hurried  off  to  catch  a  train,  and  he  never 
knew  the  Eube  had  pitched  the  great  game  on  his 
wedding  day. 

That  afternoon  before  a  crowd  that  had  to  be 
roped  off  the  diamond,  I  put  the  Kube  against 
the  Bisons.  How  well  he  showed  the  baseball 
knowledge  he  had  assimilated!  He  changed  his 
style  in  that  second  game.  He  used  a  slow  ball 
and  wide  curves  and  took  things  easy.  He  made 
Buffalo  hit  the  ball  and  when  runners  got  on 
bases  once  more  let  out  his  speed  and  held  them 
down.  He  relied  upon  the  players  behind  him 
and  they  were  equal  to  the  occasion. 

It  was  a  totally  different  game  from  that  of 
the  morning,  and  perhaps  one  more  suited  to  the 
pleasure  of  the  audience.  There  was  plenty  of 
hard  hitting,  sharp  fielding  and  good  base  run- 
ning, and  the  game  was  close  and  exciting  up  to 
the  eighth,  when  Mullaney's  triple  gave  us  two 
runs,  and  a  lead  that  was  not  headed.  To  the 
deafening  roar  of  the  bleachers  the  Kube  walked 


78         THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

off  the  field,  having  pitched  Worcester  into  first 
place  in  the  pennant  race. 

That  night  the  boys  planned  their  first  job  on 
the  Eube.  We  had  ordered  a  special  Pullman 
for  travel  to  Toronto,  and  when  I  got  to  the  depot 
in  the  morning,  the  Pullman  was  a  white  flutter- 
ing mass  of  satin  ribbons.  Also,  there  was  a 
brass  band,  and  thousands  of  baseball  fans,  and 
barrels  of  old  foot-gear.  The  Eube  and  Nan 
arrived  in  a  cab  and  were  immediately  mobbed. 
The  crowd  roared,  the  band  played,  the  engine 
whistled,  the  bell  clanged;  and  the  air  was  full 
of  confetti  and  slippers,  and  showers  of  rice  like 
hail  pattered  everywhere.  A  somewhat  dishev- 
elled bride  and  groom  boarded  the  Pullman  and 
breathlessly  hid  in  a  state  room.  The  train 
started,  and  the  crowd  gave  one  last  rousing 
cheer.  Old  Spears  yelled  from  the  back  plat- 
form: 

"Fellers,  an*  fans,  you.  needn't  worry  none 
about  leavin'  the  Eube  an'  his  bride  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  the  gang.  A  hundred  years  from  now 
people  will  talk  about  this  honeymoon  baseball 
trip.  Wait  till  we  come  back — an'  say,  jest  to  put 
you  wise,  no  matter  what  else  happens,  we're 
comin'  back  in  first  place!" 

It  was  surely  a  merry  party  in  that  Pullman. 
The  bridal  couple  emerged  from  their  hiding  place 
and  held  a  sort  of  reception  in  which  the  Eube 
appeared  shy  and  frightened,  and  Nan  resembled 


THE   RUBE'S   HONEYMOON  79 

a  joyous,  fluttering  bird  in  gray.  I  did  not  see 
if  she  kissed  every  man  on  the  team,  but  she  kissed 
me  as  if  she  had  been  wanting  to  do  it  for  ages. 
Milly  kissed  the  Rube,  and  so  did  the  other  women, 
to  his  infinite  embarrassment.  Nan's  effect  upon 
that  crowd  was  most  singular.  She  was  sweet- 
ness and  caprice  and  joy  personified. 

We  settled  down  presently  to  something  ap- 
proaching order,  and  I,  for  one,  with  very  keen 
ears  and  alert  eyes,  because  I  did  not  want  to 
miss  anything. 

"I  see  the  lambs  a-gambolin',"  observed  Mc- 
Call,  in  a  voice  louder  than  was  necessary  to  con- 
vey his  meaning  to  Mullaney,  his  partner  in  the 
seat. 

"Yes,  it  do  seem  as  if  there  was  joy  aboundin' 
hereabouts,"  replied  Mul  with  fervor. 

"It's  more  spring-time  than  summer,"  said 
Ashwell,  "an'  everything  in  nature  is  runnin'  in 
pairs.  There  are  the  sheep  an*  the  cattle  an'  the 
birds.  I  see  two  kingfishers  fishin*  over  here. 
An'  there's  a  couple  of  honey-bees  makin'  honey. 
Oh,  honey,  an'  by  George,  if  there  ain't  two  but- 
terflies foldin'  their  wings  round  each  other.  See 
the  dandelions  kissin'  in  the  field!'* 

Then  the  staid  Captain  Spears  spoke  up  with 
an  appearance  of  sincerity  and  a  tone  that  was 
nothing  short  of  remarkable. 

"Reggie,  see  the  sunshine  asleep  upon  yon 
bank.  Ain't  it  lovely?  An'  that  white  cloud 


80         THE   BEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

sailin'  thither  amid  the  blue — how  spontaneons ! 
Joy  is  a-broad  o'er  all  this  boo-tiful  land  today 
— Oh,  yes!  An*  love's  wings  hover  o'er  the  little 
lambs  anj  the  bullfrogs  in  the  pond  an'  the  dicky 
birds  in  the  trees.  "What  sweetness  to  lie  in  the 
grass,  the  lap  of  bounteous  earth,  eatin'  apples  in 
the  Garden  of  Eden,  an'  chasin'  away  the  snakes 
an'  dreamin*  of  Thee,  Sweet-h-e-a-r-t " 

Spears  was  singing  when  he  got  so  far  and 
there  was  no  telling  what  he  might  have  done  if 
Mullaney,  unable  to  stand  the  agony,  had  not 
jabbed  a  pin  in  him.  But  that  only  made  way  for 
the  'efforts  'of  the  other  boys,  each  of  whom  tried 
to  outdo  the  other  in  poking  fun  at  the  Rube  and 
Nan.-  ft?he  big  pitcher  was  too  gloriously  happy 
to  note  much  of  what  went  on  around  him,  but 
when  it  dawned  upon  him  he  grew  red  and  white 
by  turns. 

Nan,  however,  was  more  than  equal  to  the  occa- 
sion. Presently  she  smiled  at  Spears,  such  a 
smile !  The  captain  looked  as  if  he  had  just  par- 
taken of  an  intoxicating  wine.  With  a  heightened 
color  in  her  cheeks  and  a  dangerous  flash  in  her 
roguish  eyes,  Nan  favored  McCall  with  a  look, 
which  was  as  much  as  to  say  that  she  remembered 
him  with  a  dear  sadness.  She  made  eyes  at  every 
fellow  in  the  car,  and  then  bringing  back  her  gaze 
to  the  Eube,  as  if  glorying  in  comparison,  she 
nestled  her  curly  black  head  on  his  shoulder.  He 
gently  tried  to  move  her ;  but  it  was  not  possible. 


THE   RUBE'S   HONEYMOON  81 

Nan  knew  how  to  meet  the  ridicule  of  half  a  dozen 
old  lovers.  One  by  one  they  buried  themselves 
in  newspapers,  and  finally  McCall,  for  once  utterly 
beaten,  showed  a  white  feather,  and  sank  back 
out  of  sight  behind  his  seat. 

The  boys  did  not  recover  from  that  shock  until 
late  in  the  afternoon.  As  it  was  a  physical  im- 
possibility for  Nan  to  rest  her  head  all  day  upon 
her  husband's  broad  shoulder,  the  boys  toward 
dinner  time  came  out  of  their  jealous  trance.  I 
heard  them  plotting  something.  When  dinner 
was  called,  about  half  of  my  party,  including  the 
bride  and  groom,  went  at  once  into  the  dining-car. 
Time  there  flew  by  swiftly.  And  later,  when  we 
were  once  more  in  our  Pullman,  and  I  had  gotten 
interested  in  a  game  of  cards  with  Milly  and 
Stringer  and  his  wife,  the  Eube  came  marching 
up  to  me  with  a  very  red  face. 

"Con,  I  reckon  some  of  the  boys  have  stolen 
my — our  grips,"  said  he. 

"What!"  I  asked,  blankly. 

He  explained  that  during  his  absence  in  the 
dining-car  somteone  had  entered  his  stateroom 
and  stolen  his  grip  and  Nan 's.  I  hastened  at  once 
to  aid  the  Eube  in  his  search.  The  boys  swore 
by  everything  under  and  beyond  the  sun  they  had 
not  seen  the  grips;  they  appeared  very  much 
grieved  at  the  loss  and  pretended  to  help  in 
searching  the  Pullman.  At  last,  with  the  assist- 
ance of  a  porter,  we  discovered  the  missing  grips 


82        THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

in  an  upper  berth.  The  Kube  carried  them  off  to 
his  stateroom  and  we  knew  soon  from  his  uncom- 
plimentary remarks  that  the  contents  of  the  suit- 
cases had  been  mixed  and  manhandled.  But  he 
did  not  hunt  for  the  jokers. 

We  arrived  at  Toronto  before  daylight  next 
morning,  and  remained  in  the  Pullman  until  seven 
o'clock.  When  we  got  out,  it  was  discovered  that 
the  Eube  and  Nan  had  stolen  a  march  upon  us. 
We  traced  them  to  the  hotel,  and  found  them  at 
breakfast.  After  breakfast  we  formed  a  merry 
sight-seeing  party  and  rode  all  over  the  city. 

That  afternoon,  when  Raddy  let  Toronto  down 
with  three  hits  and  the  boys  played  a  magnificent 
game  behind  him,  and  we  won  7  to  2,  I  knew  at 
last  and  for  certain  that  the  Worcester  team  had 
come  into  its  own  again.  Then  next  day  Cairns 
won  a  close,  exciting  game,  and  following  that,  on 
the  third  day,  the  matchless  Rube  toyed  with  the 
Torontos.  Eleven  straight  games  won !  I  was  in 
the  clouds,  and  never  had  I  seen  so  beautiful  a 
light  as  shone  in  Milly's  eyes. 

From  that  day  The  Honeymoon  Trip  of  the 
Worcester  Baseball  Club,  as  the  newspapers 
heralded  it — was  a  triumphant  march.  We  won 
two  out  of  three  games  at  Montreal,  broke  even 
with  the  hard-fighting  Bisons,  took  three  straight 
from  Rochester,  and  won  one  and  tied  one  out  of 
three  with  Hart'f  ord.  It  would  have  been  wonder- 
ful ball  playing  for  a  team  to  play  on  home 


THE   RUBE'S   HONEYMOON  83 

grounds  and  we  were  doing  the  full  circuit  of 
the  league. 

Spears  had  called  the  turn  when  he  said  the 
trip  would  be  a  hummer.  Nan  Hurtle  had  brought 
us  wonderful  luck. 

But  the  tricks  they  played  on  Whit  and  his  girl- 
fan  bride ! 

Ashwell,  who  was  a  capital  actor,  disguised 
himself  as  a  conductor  and  pretended  to  try  to 
eject  Whit  and  Nan  from  the  train,  urging  that 
love-making  was  not  permitted.  Some  of  the 
team  hired  a  clever  young  woman  to  hunt  the 
Eube  up  at  the  hotel,  and  claim  old  acquaintance 
with  him.  Poor  Whit  almost  collapsed  when  the 
young  woman  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  just 
as  Nan  entered  the  parlor.  Upon  the  instant  Nan 
became  wild  as  a  little  tigress,  and  it  took  much 
explanation  and  eloquence  to  reinstate  Whit  in 
her  affections. 

Another  time  Spears,  the  wily  old  fox,  suc- 
ceeded in  detaining  Nan  on  the  way  to  the  station, 
and  the  two  missed  the  train.  At  first  the  Rube 
laughed  with  the  others,  but  when  Stringer  re- 
marked that  he  had  noticed  a  growing  attachment 
between  Nan  and  Spears,  my  great  pitcher  ex- 
perienced the  first  pangs  of  the  green-eyed  mon- 
ster. We  had  to  hold  him  to  keep  him  from  jump- 
ing from  the  train,  and  it  took  Milly  and  Mrs. 
Stringer  to  soothe  him.  I  had  to  wire  back  to 
Rochester  for  a  special  train  for  Spears  and  Nan, 


84         THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

and  even  then  we  had  to  play  half  a  game  without 
the  services  of  our  captain. 

So  far  upon  our  trip  I  had  been  fortunate  in 
securing  comfortable  rooms  and  the  best  of  trans- 
portation for  my  party.  At  Hartford,  however, 
I  encountered  difficulties.  I  could  not  get  a  spe- 
cial Pullman,  and  the  sleeper  we  entered  already 
had  a  number  of  occupants.  After  the  ladies  of 
my  party  had  been  assigned  to  berths,  it  was 
necessary  for  some  of  the  boys  to  sleep  double  in 
upper  berths. 

It  was  late  when  we  got  aboard,  the  berths  were 
already  made  up,  and  soon  we  had  all  retired. 
In  the  morning  very  early  I  was  awakened  by  a 
disturbance.  It  sounded  like  a  squeal.  I  heard 
an  astonished  exclamation,  another  squeal,  the 
pattering  of  little  feet,  then  hoarse  uproar  of 
laughter  from  the  ball  players  in  the  upper  berths. 
Following  that  came  low,  excited  conversation  be- 
tween the  porter  and  somebody,  then  an  angry 
snort  from  the  Rube  and  the  thud  of  his  heavy 
feet  in  the  aisle.  "What  took  place  after  that  was 
guess-work  for  me.  But  I  gathered  from  the 
roars  and  bawls  that  the  Eube  was  after  some  of 
the  boys.  I  poked  my  head  between  the  curtains 
and  saw  him  digging  into  the  berths. 

"Where's  McCallt"  he  yelled. 

Mac  was  nowhere  in  that  sleeper,  judging  from 
the  vehement  denials.  But  the  Eube  kept  on  dig- 
ging and  prodding  in  the  upper  berths. 


THE   EUBE'S   HONEYMOON          85 

"I'm  a-goin'  to  lick  you,  Mac,  so  I  reckon  you'd 
better  show  up,"  shouted  the  Eube. 

The  big  fellow  was  mad  as  a  hornet.  When  he 
got  to  me  he  grasped  me  with  his  great  fence- 
rail  splitting  hands  and  I  cried  out  with  pain. 

"Say!  Whit,  let  up!  Mac's  not  here.  .  .  . 
What's  wrong?" 

"I'll  show  you  when  I  find  him."  And  tKe 
Eube  stalked  on  down  the  aisle,  a  tragically  comic 
figure  in  his  pajamas.  In  his  search  for  Mac  he 
pried  into  several  upper  berths  that  contained 
occupants  who  were  not  ball  players,  and  these 
protested  in  affright.  Then  the  Eube  began  to 
investigate  the  lower  berths.  A  row  of  heads  pro- 
truded in  a  bobbing  line  from  between  the  cur- 
tains of  the  upper  berths. 

"Here,  you  Indian!  Don't  you  look  in  there! 
That's  my  wife's  berth!"  yelled  Stringer. 

Bogart,  too,  evinced  great  excitement. 

"Hurtle,  keep  out  of  lower  eight  or  I'll  Mil 
you,"  he  shouted. 

What  the  Eube  might  have  done  there  was  no 
telling,  but  as  he  grasped  a  curtain,  he  was  inter- 
rupted by  a  shriek  from  some  woman  assuredly 
not  of  our  party. 

"Get  out!  you  horrid  wretch!  Help!  Porter! 
Help!  Conductor!" 

Instantly  there  was  a  deafening  tumult  in  the 
car.  When  it  had  subsided  somewhat,  and  I  con- 
sidered I  would  be  safe,  I  descended  from  my 


86         THE   KEDHEADED    OUTFIELD 

berth  and  made  my  way  to  the  dressing  room. 
Sprawled  over  the  leather  seat  was  the  Kube  pom- 
melling McCall  with  hearty  good  will.  I  would 
have  interfered,  had  it  not  been  for  Mac's  de- 
meanor. He  was  half  frightened,  half  angry,  and 
utterly  unable  to  defend  himself  or  even  resist, 
because  he  was  laughing,  too. 

'  *  Dog-gone  it !  "Whit — I  didn  't — do  it !  I  swear 
it  was  Spears!  Stop  thumpin*  me  now — or  I'll 
get  sore.  .  .  .  You  hear  me!  It  wasn't  me,  I  tell 
you.  Cheese  it!" 

For  all  his  protesting  Mac  received  a  good 
thumping,  and  I  doubted  not  in  the  least  that  he 
deserved  it.  The  wonder  of  the  affair,  however, 
was  the  fact  that  no  one  appeared  to  know  what 
had  made  the  Rube  so  furious.  The  porter  would 
not  tell,  and  Mac  was  strangely  reticent,  though 
his  smile  was  one  to  make  a  fellow  exceedingly 
sure  something  out  of  the  ordinary  had  befallen. 
It  was  not  until  I  was  having  breakfast  in  Provi- 
dence that  I  learned  the  true  cause  of  Eube's 
conduct,  and  Milly  confided  it  to  me,  insisting 
on  strict  confidence. 

"I  promised  not  to  tell,"  she  said.  "Now  you 
promise  you'll  never  tell." 

"Well,  Connie,"  went  on  Milly,  when  I  had 
promised,  "it  was  the  funniest  thing  yet,  but  it 
was  horrid  of  McCall.  You  see,  the  Rube  had 
upper  seven  and  Nan  had  lower  seven.  Early 
this  morning,  about  daylight,  Nan  awoke  very 


THE   RUBE'S   HONEYMOON  87 

thirsty  and  got  up  to  get  a  drink.  During  her 
absence,  probably,  but  any  way  some  time  last 
night,  McOall  changed  the  number  on  Her  cur- 
tain,  and  when  Nan  came  back  to  number 
seven  of  course  she  almost  got  in  the  wrong 
berth." 

"No  wonder  the  Rube  punched  him!"  I  de- 
clared. "I  wish  we  were  safe  home.  Some- 
thing'11  happen  yet  on  this  trip." 

I  was  faithful  to  my  promise  to  Milly,  but  the 
secret  leaked  out  somewhere;  perhaps  Mac  told 
it,  and  before  the  game  that  day  all  the  players 
knew  it.  The  Rube,  having  recovered  his  good 
humor,  minded  it  not  in  the  least.  He  could  not 
have  felt  ill-will  for  any  length  of  time.  Every- 
thing seemed  to  get  back  into  smooth  running 
order,  and  the  Honeymoon  Trip  bade  fair  to  wind 
up  beautifully. 

But,  somehow  or  other,  and  about  something 
unknown  to  the  rest  of  us,  the  Rube  and  Nan 
quarreled.  It  was  their  first  quarrel.  Milly  and 
I  tried  to  patch  it  up  but  failed. 

We  lost  the  first  game  to  Providence  and  won 
the  second.  The  next  day,  a  Saturday,  was  the 
last  game  of  the  trip,  and  it  was  Rube's  turn  to 
pitch.  Several  times  during  the  first  two  days 
the  Rube  and  Nan  about  half  made  up  their 
quarrel,  only  in  the  end  to  fall  deeper  into  it. 
Then  the  last  straw  came  in  a  foolish  move  on  the 
part  of  wilful  Nan.  She  happened  to  meet  Hen- 


88         THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

derson,  her  former  admirer,  and  in  a  flash  she 
took  up  her  flirtation  with  him  where  she  had  left 
off. 

" Don't  go  to  the  game  witK  him,  Nan,"  I 
pleaded.  "It's  a  silly  thing  for  you  to  do.  Of 
course  yon  don't  mean  anything,  except  to  tor- 
ment Whit.  But  cut  it  out.  The  gang  will  make 
him  miserable  and  we'll  lose  the  game.  There's 
no  telling  what  might  happen." 

"I'm  supremely  indifferent  to  what  happens," 
she  replied,  with  a  rebellious  toss  of  her  black 
head.  "I  hope  Whit  gets  beaten." 

She  went  'to  the  game  with  Henderson  and  sat 
in  the  grand  stand,  and  the  boys  spied  them  out 
and  told  the  Eube.  He  did  not  believe  it  at  first, 
but  finally  saw  them,  looked  deeply  hurt  and  of- 
fended, and  then  grew  angry.  But  the  gong, 
sounding  at  that  moment,  drew  his  attention  to 
his  business  of  the  day,  to  pitch. 

His  work  that  day  reminded  me  of  the  first 
game  he  ever  pitched  for  me,  upon  which  occa- 
sion Captain  Spears  got  the  best  out  of  him  by 
making  him  angry.  For  several  innings  Provi- 
dence was  helpless  before  his  delivery.  Then 
something  happened  that  showed  me  a  crisis  was 
near.  A  wag  of  a  fan  yelled  from  the  bleachers. 

"Honeymoon  Eube!" 

This  cry  was  taken  up  by  the  delighted  fans 
and  it  rolled  around  the  field.  But  the  Rube 
pitched  on,  harder  than  ever.  Then  the  knowing 


THE   RUBE'S   HONEYMOON  89 

bleacherite  who  had  started  the  cry  changed  it 
somewhat. 

"Nanny's  Rube!"  he  yelled, 

This,  too,  went  the  rounds,  and  still  the  Rube, 
though  red  in  the  face,  preserved  his  temper  and 
his  pitching  control.  All  would  have  been  well 
if  Bud  Wiler,  comedian  of  the  Providence  team, 
had  not  hit  upon  a  way  to  rattle  Eube. 

"Nanny's  Goat!"  he  shouted  from  the  coach- 
ing lines.  Every  Providence  player  took  it 
Tip. 

The  Rube  was  not  proof  against  that.  He 
yelled  so  fiercely  at  them,  and  glared  so  furiously, 
and  towered  so  formidably,  that  they  ceased  for 
the  moment.  Then  he  let  drive  with  his  fast 
straight  ball  and  hit  the  first  Providence  batter 
in  the  ribs.  His  comrades  had  to  help  him  to  the 
bench.  The  Rube  hit  the  next  batter  on  the  leg, 
and  judging  from  the  crack  of  the  ball,  I  fancied 
that  player  would  walk  lame  for  several  days. 
The  Rube  tried  to  hit  the  next  batter  and  sent 
him  to  first  on  balls.  Thereafter  it  became  a 
dodging  contest  with  honors  about  equal  between 
pitcher  and  batters.  The  Providence  players 
stormed  and  the  bleachers  roared.  But  I  would 
not  take  the  Rube  out  and  the  game  went  on  with 
the  Rube  forcing  in  runs. 

With  the  score  a  tie,  and  three  men  on  bases 
one  of  the  players  on  the  bench  again  yelled: 
"Nanny's  Goat!" 


90        THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

Straight  as  a  string  the  Rube  shot  the  ball  at 
this  fellow  and  bounded  after  it.  The  crowd  rose 
in  an  uproar.  The  base  runners  began  to  score. 
I  left  my  bench  and  ran  across  the  space,  but  not 
in  time  to  catch  the  Rube.  I  saw  him  hit  two  or 
three  of  the  Providence  men.  Then  the  police- 
men got  to  him,  and  a  real  fight  brought  the  big 
audience  into  the  stamping  melee.  Before  the 
Rube  was  collared  I  saw  at  least  four  blue-coats 
on  the  grass. 

The  game  broke  up,  and  the  crowd  spilled  i^ 
self  in  streams  over  the  field.  Excitement  ran 
high.  I  tried  to  force  my  way  into  the  mass  to 
get  at  the  Rube  and  the  officers,  but  this  was  im- 
possible. I  feared  the  Rube  would  be  taken  from 
the  officers  and  treated  with  violence,  so  I  waited 
with  the  surging  crowd,  endeavoring  to  get 
nearer.  Soon  we  were  in  the  street,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  all  the  stands  had  emptied  their  yelling  occu- 
pants. 

A  trolley  car  came  along  down  the  street,  split- 
ting the  mass  of  people  and  driving  them  back. 
A  dozen  policemen  summarily  bundled  the  Rube 
upon  the  rear  end  of  the  car.  Some  of  these 
officers  boarded  the  car,  and  some  remained  in 
the  street  to  beat  off  the  vengeful  fans. 

I  saw  some  one  thrust  forward  a  frantic  young 
woman.  The  officers  stopped  her,  then  suddenly 
helped  her  on  the  car,  just  as  I  started.  I  recog- 
nized Nan.  She  gripped  the  Rube  with  both 


THE   EUBE'S   HONEYMOON  91 

hands  and  turned  a  white,  fearful  face  upon  the 
angry  crowd. 

The  Rube  stood  in  the  grasp  of  his  wife  and 
the  policemen,  and  he  looked  like  a  ruffled  lion. 
He  shook  his  big  fist  and  bawled  in  far-reaching 
voice : 

"I  can  lick  you  all!" 

To  my  infinite  relief,  the  trolley  gathered  mo- 
mentum and  safely  passed  out  of  danger.  The 
last  thing  I  made  out  was  Nan  pressing  close  to 
the  Rube's  side.  That  moment  saw  their  recon- 
ciliation and  my  joy  that  it  was  the  end  of  the 
Rube's  Honeymoon. 


THE  KUBE'S  WATERLOO 

IT  was  about  the  sixth  inning  that  I  suspected 
the  Rube  of  weakening.  For  that  matter  he  had 
not  pitched  anything  resembling  his  usual  brand 
of  baseball.  But  the  Rube  had  developed  into 
such  a  wonder  in  the  box  that  it  took  time  for 
his  let-down  to  dawn  upon  me.  Also  it  took  a  tip 
from  Raddy,  who  sat  with  me  on  the  bench. 

"Con,  the  Rube  isn't  himself  today, "  said  Rad- 
bourne.  "His  mind's  not  on  the  game.  He  seems 
hurried  and  flustered,  too.  If  he  doesn't  explode 
presently,  I'm  a  dub  at  callin'  the  turn." 

Raddy  was  the  best  judge  of  a  pitcher's  condi- 
tion, physical  or  mental,  in  the  Eastern  League. 
It  was  a  Saturday  and  we  were  on  the  roabl  and 
finishing  up  a  series  with  the  Rochesters.  Each 
team  had  won  and  lost  a  game,  and,  as  I  was 
climbing  close  to  the  leaders  in  the  pennant  race, 
I  wanted  the  third  and  deciding  game  of  that 
Rochester  series.  The  usual  big  Saturday  crowd 
was  in  attendance,  noisy,  demonstrative  and 
exacting. 

93 


94         THE   KEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

In  this  sixth  inning  the  first  man  up  for 
Rochester  had  flied  to  McCall.  Then  had  come 
the  two  plays  significant  of  Rube's  weakening. 
He  had  hit  one  batter  and  walked  another.  This 
was  sufficient,  considering  the  score  was  three 
to  one  in  our  favor,  to  bring  the  audience  to  its 
feet  with  a  howling,  stamping  demand  for  runs. 

"Spears  is  wise  all  right,"  said  Raddy. 

I  watched  the  foxy  old  captain  walk  over  to  the 
Rube  and  talk  to  him  while  he  rested,  a  reassuring 
hand  on  the  pitcher's  shoulder.  The  crowd  yelled 
its  disapproval  and  Umpire  Bales  called  out 
sharply : 

"Spears,  get  back  to  the  bag!" 

"Now,  Mister  Umpire,  ain't  I  hurrin*  all  I 
can?"  queried  Spears  as  he  leisurely  ambled  back 
to  first. 

The  Rube  tossed  a  long,  damp  welt  of  hair  back 
from  his  big  brow  and  nervously  toed  the  rubber. 
I  noted  that  he  seemed  to  forget  the  runners  on 
bases  and  delivered  the  ball  without  glancing  at 
either  bag.  Of  course  this  resulted  in  a  double 
steal.  The  ball  went  wild — almost  a  wild  pitch. 

"Steady  up,  old  man,"  called  Gregg  between 
the  yells  of  the  bleachers.  He  held  his  mitt  square 
over  the  plate  for  the  Rube  to  pitch  to.  Again 
the  long  twirler  took  his  swing,  and  again  the 
ball  went  wild.  Clancy  had  the  Rube  in  the  hole 
now  and  the  situation  began  to  grow  serious. 
The  Rube  did  not  take  half  his  usual  deliberation, 


THE   RUBE'S   WATERLOO  95 

and  of  the  next  two  pitches  one  of  them  was  a 
ball  and  the  other  a  strike  by  grace  of  the  um- 
pire's generosity.  Clancy  rapped  the  next  one, 
an  absurdly  slow  pitch  for  the  Rube  to  use,  and 
both  runners  scored  to  the  shrill  tune  of  the  happy 
bleachers. 

I  saw  Spears  shake  his  head  and  look  toward 
the  bench.  It  was  plain  what  that  meant. 

"Baddy,  I  ought  to  take  the  Rube  out,"  I  said, 
"but  whom  can  I  put  in?  You  worked  yester- 
day— Cairns*  arm  is  sore.  It's  got  to  be  nursed. 
And  Henderson,  that  ladies'  man  I  just  signed,  is 
not  in  uniform." 

"I'll  go  in,"  replied  Raddy,  instantly. 

"Not  on  your  life. "  I  had  as  hard  a  time  keep- 
ing Radbourne  from  overworking  as  I  had  in 
getting  enough  work  out  of  some  other  players. 
"I  guess  I'll  let  the  Rube  take  his  medicine.  I 
hate  to  lose  this  game,  but  if  we  have  to,  we  can 
stand  it.  I'm  curious,  anyway,  to  see  what's  the 
matter  with  the  Rube.  Maybe  he'll  settle  down 
presently." 

I  made  no  sign  that  I  had  noticed  Spears'  ap- 
peal to  the  bench.  And  my  aggressive  players, 
no  doubt  seeing  the  situation  as  I  saw  it,  sang  out 
their  various  calls  of  cheer  to  the  Rube  and  of 
defiance  to  their  antagonists.  Clancy  stole  off 
first  base  so  far  that  the  Rube,  catching  some- 
body's warning  too  late,  made  a  balk  and  the 
umpire  sent  the  runner  on  to  second.  The  Rube 


96         THE   KEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

now  plainly  showed  painful  evidences  of  being 
rattled. 

He  could  not  locate  the  plate  without  slowing 
up  and  when  he  did  that  a  Rochester  player  wal- 
loped the  ball.  Pretty  soon  he  pitched  as  if  he 
did  not  care,  and  but  for  the  fast  fielding  of  the 
team  behind  him  the  Rochesters  would  have 
scored  more  than  the  eight  runs  it  got.  When  the 
Rube  came  in  to  the  bench  I  asked  him  if  he  was 
sick  and  at  first  he  said  he  was  and  then  that 
he  was  not.  So  I  let  him  pitch  the  remaining 
innings,  as  the  game  was  lost  anyhow,  and  we 
walked  off  the  field  a  badly  beaten  team. 

That  night  we  had  to  hurry  from  the  hotel  to 
catch  a  train  for  "Worcester  and  we  had  dinner 
in  the  dining-car.  Several  of  my  players'  wives 
had  come  over  from  Worcester  to  meet  us,  and 
were  in  the  dining-car  when  I  entered.  I  observed 
a  pretty  girl  sitting  at  one  of  the  tables  with 
my  new  pitcher,  Henderson. 

"Say,  Mac,'*  I  said  to  McCall,  who  was  with 
me,  "is  Henderson  married?" 

"Naw,  but  he  looks  like  he  wanted  to  be.  He 
was  in  the  grand  stand  today  with  that  girl." 

"Who  is  she?    Oh!  a  little  peach!" 

A  second  glance  at  Henderson's  companion 
brought  this  compliment  from  me  involun- 
tarily. 

"Con,  you'll  get  it  as  bad  as  the  rest  of  this 
mushy  bunch  of  ball  players.  We're  all  stuck  on 


THE   RUBE'S   WATERLOO  97 

that  kid.  But  since  Henderson  came  she's  been 
a  frost  to  all  of  us.  An'  it's  put  the  Rube  in  the 
dumps. " 

"Who's  the  girl?" 

" That's  Nan  Brown.  She  lives  in  Worcester 
an'  is  the  craziest  girl  fan  I  ever  seen.  Flirt! 
Well,  she's  got  them  all  beat.  Somebody  intro- 
duced the  Rube  to  her.  He  has  been  mooney  ever 
since." 

That  was  enough  to  whet  my  curiosity,  and  I 
favored  Miss  Brown  with  more  than  one  glance 
during  dinner.  When  we  returned  to  the  parlor 
car  I  took  advantage  of  the  opportunity  and  re- 
marked to  Henderson  that  he  might  introduce 
his  manager.  He  complied,  but  not  with  amiable 
grace. 

So  I  chatted  with  Nan  Brown,  and  studied  her. 
She  was  a  pretty,  laughing,  coquettish  little  minx 
and  quite  baseball  mad.  I  had  met  many  girl 
fans,  but  none  so  enthusiastic  as  Nan.  But  she 
was  wholesome  and  sincere,  and  I  liked  her. 

Before  turning  in  I  sat  down  beside  the  Rube. 
He  was  very  quiet  and  his  face  did  not  encourage 
company.  But  that  did  not  stop  me. 

" Hello,  Whit;  have  a  smoke  before  you  go  to 
bed?"  I  asked  cheerfully. 

He  scarcely  heard  me  and  made  no  move  to 
take  the  proffered  cigar.  All  at  once  it  struck 
me  that  the  rustic  simplicity  which  had  character- 
ized him  had  vanished. 


98         THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

"Whit,  old  fellow,  what  was  wrong  today  I " 
I  asked,  quietly,  with  my  hand  on  Ms  arm. 

"Mr.  Connelly,  I  want  my  release^  I  want  to 
go  back  to  Rickettsville,"  he  replied  hur- 
riedly. 

For  the  space  of  a  few  seconds  I  did  some  tall 
thinking.  The  situation  suddenly  became  grave. 
I  saw  the  pennant  for  the  Worcesters  fading,  dim- 
ming. 

"You  want  to  go  home?"  I  began  slowly. 
"Why,  Whit,  I  can't  keep  you.  I  wouldn't  try  if 
you  didn't  want  to  stay.  But  I'll  tell  you  con- 
fidentially, if  you  leave  me  at  this  stage  I'm 
ruined. ' ' 

"How's  that?"  he  inquired,  keenly  looking  at 
me. 

"Well,  I  can't  win  the  pennant  without  you.  If 
I  do  win  it  there's  a  big  bonus  for  me.  I  can 
buy  the  house  I  want  and  get  married  this  fall 
if  I  capture  the  flag.  You've  met  Milly.  You  can 
imagine  what  your  pitching  means  to  me  this 
year.  That's  all." 

He  averted  his  face  and  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow. His  big  jaw  quivered. 

"If  it's  that— why,  I'U  stay,  I  reckon,"  he 
said  huskily. 

That  moment  bound  Whit  Hurtle  and  Frank 
Connelly  into  a  far  closer  relation  than  the  one 
between  player  and  manager.  I  sat  silent  for  a 
while,  listening  to  the  drowsy  talk  of  the  other 


THE   BUBE'S   WATERLOO  99 

players  and  the  rush  and  roar  of  the  train  as  it 
sped  on  into  the  night. 

"Thank  you,  old  chap,"  I  replied.  "It  would- 
n't have  been  like  you  to  throw  me  down  at  this 
stage.  Whit,  you're  in  trouble?" 

"Yes." 

"Can  I  help  you — in  any  way?" 

"I  reckon  not." 

"Don't  be  too  sure  of  that.  I'm  a  pretty  wise 
guy,  if  I  do  say  it  myself.  I  might  be  able  to  do 
as  much  for  you  as  you're  going  to  do  for  me." 

The  sight  of  his  face  convinced  me  that  I  had 
taken  a  wrong  tack.  It  also  showed  me  how  deep 
Whites  trouble  really  was.  I  bade  him  good 
night  and  went  to  my  berth,  where  sleep  did  not 
soon  visit  me.  A  saucy,  sparkling-eyed  woman 
barred  Whit  Hurtle's  baseball  career  at  its 
threshold. 

Women  are  just  as  fatal  to  ball  players  as  to 
men  in  any  other  walk  of  life.  I  had  seen  a  strong 
athlete  grow  palsied  just  at  a  scornful  slight.  It's 
a  great  world,  and  the  women  run  it.  So  I  lay 
awake  racking  my  brains  to  outwit  a  pretty  dis- 
organizer ;  and  I  plotted  for  her  sake.  Married, 
she  would  be  out  of  mischief.  For  Whit's  sake, 
for  Milly's  sake,  for  mine,  all  of  which  collectively 
meant  for  the  sake  of  the  pennant,  this  would  be 
the  solution  of  the  problem. 

I  decided  to  take  Milly  into  my  confidence,  and 
finally  on  the  strength  of  that  I  got  to  sleep.  In 


100       THE   KEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

the  morning  I  went  to  my  hotel,  had  breakfast, 
attended  to  my  mail,  and  then  boarded  a  car  to  go 
out  to  Milly's  house.  She  was  waiting  for  me  on 
the  porch,  dressed  as  I  liked  to  see  her,  in  blue 
and  white,  and  she  wore  violets  that  matched  the 
color  of  her  eyes. 

"Hello,  Connie.  I  haven't  seen  a  morning 
paper,  but  I  know  from  your  face  that  you  lost 
the  Eochester  series,"  said  Milly,  with  a  gay 
laugh. 

"I  guess  yes.  The  Kube  blew  up,  and  if  we 
don't  play  a  pretty  smooth  game,  young  lady, 
he'll  never  come  down." 

Then  I  told  her. 

"Why,  Connie,  I  knew  long  ago.  Haven 't  yon 
seen  the  change  in  him  before  this?" 

"What  change?"  I  asked  blankly. 

"You  are  a  man.  Well,  he  was  a  gawky, 
slouchy,  shy  farmer  boy  when  he  came  to  us.  Of 
course  the  city  life  and  popularity  began  to  in- 
fluence him.  Then  he  met  Nan.  She  made  the 
Rube  a  worshipper.  I  first  noticed  a  change  in 
his  clothes.  He  blossomed  out  in  a  new  suit, 
white  negligee,  neat  tie  and  a  stylish  straw  hat. 
Then  it  was  evident  he  was  making  heroic  strug- 
gles to  overcome  his  awkwardness.  It  was  plain 
he  was  studying  and  copying  the  other  boys. 
He's  wonderfully  improved,  but  still  shy.  He'll 
always  be  shy.  Connie,  Whit's  a  fine  fellow,  too 
good  for  Nan  Brown." 


THE   EUBE'S   WATERLOO          101 

"But,  Milly,"  I  interrupted,  "the  Rube's  hard 
hit.  Why  is  he  too  good  for  her?" 

"Nan  is  a  natural-born  flirt/'  Milly  replied. 
"She  can't  help  it.  I'm  afraid  Whit  has  a  slim 
chance.  Nan  may  not  see  deep  enough  to  learn 
his  fine  qualities.  I  fancy  Nan  tired  quickly  of 
him,  though  the  one  time  I  saw  them  together 
she  appeared  to  like  him  very  well.  This  new 
pitcher  of  yours,  Henderson,  is  a  handsome  fellow 
and  smooth.  Whit  is  losing  to  him.  Nan  likes 
flash,  flattery,  excitement. " 

"McCall  told  me  the  Rube  had  been  down  in 
the  mouth  ever  since  Henderson  joined  the  team. 
Milly,  I  don't  like  Henderson  a  whole  lot.  He's 
not  in  the  Rube's  class  as  a  pitcher.  What  am  I 
going  to  do?  Lose  the  pennant  and  a  big  slice 
of  purse  money  just  for  a  pretty  little  flirt?" 

"Oh,  Connie,  it's  not  so  bad  as  that.  Whit  will 
come  around  all  right." 

"He  won't  unless  we  can  pull  some  wires.  I've 
got  to  help  him  win  Nan  Brown.  What  do  you 
think  of  that  for  a  manager's  job  ?  I  guess  maybe 
winning  pennants  doesn't  call  for  diplomatic 
genius  and  cunning!  But  I'll  hand  them  a  few 
tricks  before  I  lose.  My  first  move  will  be  to  give 
Henderson  his  release. 

I  left  Milly,  as  always,  once  more  able  to  make 
light  of  discouragements  and  difficulties. 

Monday  I  gave  Henderson  his  unconditional 
release.  He  celebrated  the  occasion  by  verifying 


102       THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

certain  rumors  I  had  heard  from  other  managers. 
He  got  drunk.  But  he  did  not  leave  town,  and  1 
heard  that  he  was  negotiating  with  Providence 
for  a  place  on  that  team. 

Radbourne  pitched  one  of  his  gilt-edged  games 
that  afternoon  against  Hartford  and  we  won. 
And  Hilly  sat  in  the  grand  stand,  having  con- 
trived by  cleverness  to  get  a  seat  next  to  Nan 
Brown.  Milly  and  I  were  playing  a  vastly  deeper 
game  than  baseball — a  game  with  hearts.  But  we 
were  playing  it  with  honest  motive,  for  the  good 
of  all  concerned,  we  believed,  and  on  the  square. 
I  sneaked  a  look  now  and  then  up  into  the  grand 
stand.  Milly  and  Nan  appeared  to  be  getting  on 
famously.  It  was  certain  that  Nan  was  flushed 
and  excited,  no  doubt  consciously  proud  of  being 
seen  with  my  affianced.  After  the  game  I  chanced 
to  meet  them  on  their  way  out.  Milly  winked  at 
me,  which  was  her  sign  that  all  was  working  beau- 
tifully. 

I  hunted  up  the  Rube  and  bundled  him  off  to 
the  hotel  to  take  dinner  with  me.  At  first  he  was 
glum,  but  after  a  while  he  brightened  up  some- 
what to  my  persistent  cheer  and  friendliness. 
Then  we  went  out  on  the  hotel  balcony  to 
smoke,  and  there  I  made  my  play. 

1  'Whit,  I'm  pulling  a  stroke  for  you.  Now  listen 
and  don 't  be  offended.  I  know  what 's  put  you  off 
your  feed,  because  I  was  the  same  way  when  Milly 
had  me  guessing.  You've  lost  your  head  over 


THE   EUBE'S   WATERLOO          103 

Nan  Brown.  That's  not  so  terrible,  though  I 
daresay  you  think  it's  a  catastrophe.  Because 
you've  quit.  YouVe  shown  a  yellow  streak. 
You've  lain  down. 

"My  boy,  that  isn't  the  way  to  win  a  girl. 
YouVe  got  to  scrap.  Milly  told  me  yesterday 
how  she  had  watched  your  love  affairs  with  Nan, 
and  how  she  thought  you  had  given  up  just  when 
things  might  have  come  your  way.  Nan  is  a  little 
flirt,  but  she's  all  right.  What's  more,  she  was 
getting  fond  of  you.  Nan  is  meanest  to  the  man 
she  likes  best.  The  way  to  handle  her,  Whit,  is 
to  master  her.  Play  high  and  mighty.  Get 
tragical.  Then  grab  her  up  in  your  arms.  I  tell 
you,  Whit,  it'll  all  come  your  way  if  you  only 
keep  your  nerve.  I'm  your  friend  and  so  is  Milly. 
We're  going  out  to  her  house  presently — and  Nan 
will  be  there." 

The  Rube  drew  a  long,  deep  breath  and  held  out 
his  hand.  I  sensed  another  stage  in  the  evolution 
of  Whit  Hurtle. 

"I  reckon  I've  taken  baseball  coachin',"  he  said 
presently,  "an'  I  don't  see  why  I  can't  take  some 
other  kind.  I'm  only  a  rube,  an'  things  come  hard 
for  me,  but  I'm  a-learnin'." 

It  was  about  dark  when  we  arrived  at  the  house. 

"Hello,  Connie.  You're  late.  Good  evening, 
Mr.  Hurtle.  Come  right  in.  You've  met  Miss 
Nan  Brown!  Oh,  of  course;  how  stupid  of  me!" 

It  was  a  trying  moment  for  Milly  and  me.    A 


104       THE   KEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

little  pallor  showed  under  the  Rube's  tan,  but  he 
was  more  composed  than  I  had  expected.  Nan 
got  up  from  the  piano.  She  was  all  in  white  and 
deliciously  pretty.  She  gave  a  quick,  glad  start 
of  surprise.  What  a  relief  that  was  to  my 
troubled  mind!  Everything  had  depended  upon 
a  real  honest  liking  for  Whit,  and  she  had  it. 

More  than  once  I  had  been  proud  of  Milly's 
cleverness,  but  this  night  as  hostess  and  an  ac- 
complice she  won  my  everlasting  admiration. 
She  contrived  to  give  the  impression  that  Whit 
was  a  frequent  visitor  at  her  home  and  very  wel- 
come. She  brought  out  his  best  points,  and  in  her 
skillful  hands  he  lost  embarrassment  and  awk- 
wardness. Before  the  evening  was  over  Nan  re- 
garded Whit  with  different  eyes,  and  she  never 
dreamed  that  everything  had  not  come  about 
naturally.  Then  Milly  somehow  got  me  out  on 
the  porch,  leaving  Nan  and  Whit  together. 

"Milly,  you're  a  marvel,  the  best  and  sweetest 
ever,"  I  whispered.  "We're  going  to  win.  It's 
a  cinch." 

"Well,  Connie,  not  that— exactly,"  she  whis- 
pered back  demurely.  "But  it  looks  hopeful." 

I  could  not  help  hearing  what  was  said  in  the 
parlor. 

"Now  I  can  roast  you,"  Nan  was  saying,  archly. 
She  had  switched  back  to  her  favorite  baseball 
vernacular.  "You  pitched  a  swell  game  last 
Saturday  in  Eochester,  didn't  you?  Not!  You 


THE   RUBE'S   WATERLOO          105 

had  no  steam,  no  control,  and  yon  couldn't  have 
curved  a  saucer." 

"Nan,  what  could  you  expect ?"  was  the  cool 
reply.  "You  sat  up  in  the  stand  with  your  hand- 
some friend.  I  reckon  I  couldn't  pitch.  I  just 
gave  the  game  away." 

"Whit!— Whit! " 

Then  I  whispered  to  Milly  that  it  might  be  dis- 
creet for  us  to  move  a  little  way  from  the  vicinity. 

It  was  on  the  second  day  afterward  that  I  got 
a  chance  to  talk  to  Nan.  She  reached  the  grounds 
early,  before  Milly  arrived,  and  I  found  her  in  the 
grand  stand.  The  Rube  was  down  on  the  card  to 
pitch  and  when  he  started  to  warm  up  Nan  said 
confidently  that  he  would  shut  out  Hartford  that 
afternoon. 

"I'm  sorry,  Nan,  but  you're  way  off.  We'd  do 
well  to  win  at  all,  let  alone  get  a  shutout." 

"You're  a  fine  manager!"  she  retorted,  hotly. 
"Why  won't  we  win?" 

"Well,  the  Rube's  not  in  good  form.  The 
Rube " 

"Stop  calling  him  that  horrid  name." 

"Whit's  not  in  shape.  He's  not  right.  He's 
ill  or  something  is  wrong.  I'm  worried  sick  about 
him." 

"Why — Mr.  Connelly!"  exclaimed  Nan.  She 
turned  quickly  toward  me. 

I  crowded  on  full  canvas  of  gloom  to  my  already 
long  face. 


106       THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

"I'm  serious,  Nan.  The  lad's  off,  somehow. 
Pe's  in  magnificent  physical  trim,  but  he  can't 
keep  his  mind  on  the  game.  He  has  lost  his  head. 
I've  talked  with  him,  reasoned  with  him,  all  to  no 
good.  He  only  goes  down  deeper  in  the  dumps. 
Something  is  terribly  wrong  with  him,  and  if  he 
doesn't  brace,  I'll  have  to  release " 

Miss  Nan  Brown  suddenly  lost  a  little  of  her 
rich  bloom.  "Oh!  you  wouldn't — you  couldn't 
release  him!" 

"IT  have  to  if  he  doesn't  brace.  It  means  a 
lot  to  me,  Nan,  for  of  course  I  can't  win  the  pen- 
nant this  year  without  Whit  being  in  shape.  But 
I  believe  I  wouldn't  mind  the  loss  of  that  any 
more  than  to  see  him  fall  down.  The  boy  is  a 
magnificent  pitcher.  If  he  can  only  be  brought 
around  he'll  go  to  the  big  league  next  year  and 
develop  into  one  of  the  greatest  pitchers  the  game 
has  ever  produced.  But  somehow  or  other  he  has 
lost  heart.  He's  quit.  And  I've  done  my  best 
for  him.  He's  beyond  me  now.  What  a  shame 
it  is!  For  he's  the  making  of  such  a  splendid 
man  outside  of  baseball.  Milly  thinks  the  world 
of  him.  Well,  well;  there  are  disappointments — 
we  can't  help  them.  There  goes  the  gong.  I  must 
leave  you.  Nan,  I'll  bet  you  a  box  of  candy  Whit 
loses  today.  Is  it  a  go?" 

"It  is,"  replied  Nan,  with  fire  in  her  eyes. 
"You  go  to  Whit  Hurtle  and  tell  him  I  said  if 
he  wins  today's  game  I'll  kiss  him!" 


THE   RUBE'S   WATERLOO          107 

I  nearly  broke  my  neck  over  benches  and  bats 
getting  to  Whit  with  that  message.  He  gulped 
once. 

Then  he  tightened  his  belt  and  shut  out  Hart- 
ford with  two  scratch  singles.  It  was  a  great 
exhibition  of  pitching.  I  had  no  means  to  tell 
whether  or  not  the  Rube  got  his  reward  that 
night,  but  I  was  so  happy  that  I  hugged  Milly 
within  an  inch  of  her  life. 

But  it  turned  out  that  I  had  been  a  little  pre- 
mature in  my  elation.  In  two  days  the  Rube  went 
down  into  the  depths  again,  this  time  clear  to 
China,  and  Nan  was  sitting  in  the  grand  stand 
with  Henderson.  The  Rube  lost  his  next  game, 
pitching  like  a  schoolboy  scared  out  of  his  wits. 
Henderson  followed  Nan  like  a  shadow,  so  that  I 
had  no  chance  to  talk  to  her.  The  Rube  lost  his 
next  game  and  then  another.  We  were  pushed 
out  of  second  place. 

If  we  kept  up  that  losing  streak  a  little  longer, 
our  hopes  for  the  pennant  were  gone.  I  had 
begun  to  despair  of  the  Rube.  For  some  occult 
reason  he  scarcely  spoke  to  me.  Nan  flirted  worse 
than  ever.  It  seemed  to  me  she  flaunted  her  con- 
quest of  Henderson  in  poor  Whit's  face. 

The  Providence  ball  team  came  to  town  and 
promptly  signed  Henderson  and  announced  him 
for  Saturday's  game.  Cairns  won  the  first  of  the 
series  and  Radbourne  lost  the  second.  It  was 


108       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

Rube's  turn  to  pitch  the  Saturday  game" and  I 
resolved  to  make  one  more  effort  to  put  the  love- 
sick swain  in  something  like  his  old  fettle4  So  I 
called  upon  Nan. 

She  was  surprised  to  see  me,  but  received  me 
graciously.  I  fancied  her  face  was  not  quite  so 
glowing  as  usual.  I  came  bluntly  out  with  my 
mission.  She  tried  to  freeze  me  but  I  would  not 
freeze.  I  was  out  to  win  or  lose  and  not  to  be 
lightly  laughed  aside  or  coldly  denied.  I  played 
to  make  her  angry,  knowing  the  real  truth  of  her 
feelings  would  show  under  stress. 

For  once  in  my  life  I  became  a  knocker  and  said 
some  unpleasant  things — albeit  they  were  true — 
about  Henderson.  She  championed  Henderson 
royally,  and  when,  as  a  last  card,  I  compared 
Whit's  fine  record  with  Henderson's,  not  only  as 
a  ball  player,  but  as  a  man,  particularly  in  his 
reverence  for  women,  she  flashed  at  me : 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?  Mr.  Henderson 
asked  me  to  marry  him.  Can  a  man  do  more  to 
show  his  respect?  Your  friend  never  so  much 
as  hinted  such  honorable  intentions.  What's 
more — he  insulted  me ! "  The  blaze  in  Nan 's  black 
eyes  softened  with  a  film  of  tears.  She  looked 
hurt.  Her  pride  had  encountered  a  fall. 

"Oh,  no,  Nan,  Whit  couldn't  insult  a  lady,"  I 
protested. 

1 '  Couldn  't  he  ?  That 's  all  you  know  about  him. 
You  know  I — I  promised  to  kiss  him  if  he  beat 


THE   BUBE'S  WATERLOO          109 

Hartford  that  day.  So  when  he  came  I — I  did. 
Then  the  big  savage  began  to  rave  and  he  grabbed 
me  up  in  his  arms.  He  smothered  me;  almost 
crushed  the  life  out  of  me.  He  frightened  me  ter- 
ribly. When  I  got  away  from  him — the  monster 
stood  there  and  coolly  said  I  belonged  to  him.  I 
ran  ont  of  the  room  and  wouldn't  see  him  any 
more.  At  first  I  might  have  forgiven  him  if  he 
had  apologized — said  he  was  sorry,  but  never  a 
word.  Now  I  never  will  forgive  him." 

I  had  to  make  a  strenuous  effort  to  conceal  my 
agitation.  The  Rube  had  most  carefully  taken 
my  fool  advice  in  the  matter  of  wooing  a  woman. 

When  I  had  got  a  hold  upon  myself,  I  turned 
to  Nan  white-hot  with  eloquence.  Now  I  was  talk- 
ing not  wholly  for  myself  or  the  pennant,  but  for 
this  boy  and  girl  who  were  at  odds  in  that 
strangest  game  of  life — love. 

What  I  said  I  never  knew,  but  Nan  lost  her  re- 
sentment, and  then  her  scorn  and  indifference. 
Slowly  she  thawed  and  warmed  to  my  reason, 
praise,  whatever  it  was,  and  when  I  stopped  she 
was  again  the  radiant  bewildering  Nan  of  old. 

"Take  another  message  to  Whit  for  me,"  she 
said,  audaciously.  "Tell  him  I  adore  ball  play- 
ers, especially  pitchers.  Tell  him  I'm  going  to 
the  game  today  to  choose  the  best  one.  If  he  loses 
the  game " 

She  left  the  sentence  unfinished.  In  my  state 
of  mind  I  doubted  not  in  the  least  that  she  meant 


110       THE   KEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

to  marry  the  pitcher  who  won  the  game,  and  so 
I  told  the  Eube.  He  made  one  wild  upheaval  of 
his  arms  and  shoulders,  like  an  erupting  volcano, 
which  proved  to  me  that  he  believed  it,  too. 

When  I  got  to  the  bench  that  afternoon  I  was 
tired.  There  was  a  big  crowd  to  see  the  game; 
the  weather  was  perfect ;  Milly  sat  up  in  the  box 
and  waved  her  score  card  at  me;  Raddy  and 
Spears  declared  we  had  the  game;  the  Rube 
stalked  to  and  fro  like  an  implacable  Indian  chief 
— but  I  was  not  happy  in  mind.  Calamity 
breathed  in  the  very  air. 

The  game  began.  McCall  beat  out  a  bunt ;  AsK- 
well  sacrificed  and  Stringer  laced  one  of  his  beau- 
tiful triples  against  the  fence.  Then  he  scored 
on  a  high  fly.  Two  runs !  Worcester  trotted  out 
into  the  field.  The  Rube  was  white  with  deter- 
mination ;  he  had  the  speed  of  a  bullet  and  perfect 
control  of  his  jump  ball  and  drop.  But  Provi- 
dence hit  and  had  the  luck.  Ashwell  fumbled, 
Gregg  threw  wild.  Providence  tied  the  score. 

The  game  progressed,  growing  more  and  more 
of  a  nightmare  to  me.  It  was  not  Worcester's 
day.  The  umpire  could  not  see  straight ;  the  boys 
grumbled  and  fought  among  themselves;  Spears 
roasted  the  umpire  and  was  sent  to  the  bench; 
Bogart  tripped,  hurting  his  sore  ankle,  and  had 
to  be  taken  out.  Henderson's  slow,  easy  ball 
baffled  my  players,  and  when  he  used  speed  they 
lined  it  straight  at  a  Providence  fielder. 


THE   RUBE'S   WATERLOO  111 

In  the  sixth,  after  a  desperate  rally,  we  crowded 
the  bases  with  only  one  out.'  Then  Mullaney's 
hard  rap  to  left,  seemingly  good  for  three  bases, 
was  pulled  down  by  Stone  with  one  hand.  It  was 
a  wonderful  catch  and  he  doubled  up  a  runner  at 
second.  Again  in  the  seventh  we  had  a  chance 
to  score,  only  to  fail  on  another  double  play,  this 
time  by  the  infield. 

When  the  Providence  players  were  at  bat  their 
luck  not  only  held  good  but  trebled  and  quad- 
rupled. The  little  Texas-league  hits  dropped 
safely  just  out  of  reach  of  the  infielders.  My  boys 
had  an  off  day  in  fielding.  What  horror  that  of 
all  days  in  a  season  this  should  be  the  one  for 
them  to  make  errors ! 

But  they  were  game,  and  the  Rube  was  the 
gamest  of  all.  He  did  not  seem  to  know  what 
hard  luck  was,  or  discouragement,  or  poor  sup- 
port. He  kept  everlastingly  hammering  the  ball 
at  those  lucky  Providence  hitters.  What  speed  he 
had!  The  ball  streaked  in,  and  somebody  would 
shut  his  eyes  and  make  a  safety.  But  the  Rube 
pitched,  on,  tireless,  irresistibly,  hopeful,  not  for- 
getting to  call  a  word  of  cheer  to  his  fielders. 

It  was  one  of  those  strange  games  that  could 
not  be  bettered  by  any  labor  or  daring  or  skill. 
I  saw  it  was  lost  from  the  second  inning,  yet  so 
deeply  was  I  concerned,  so  tantalizingly  did  the 
plays  reel  themselves  off,  that  I  groveled  there 
on  the  bench  unable  to  abide  by  my  baseball  sense. 


112       THE   REDHEADED    OUTFIELD 

The  ninth  inning  proved  beyond  a  shadow  of 
doubt  how  baseball  fate,  in  common  with  other 
fates,  loved  to  balance  the  chances,  to  lift  up  one, 
then  the  other,  to  lend  a  deceitful  hope  only  to 
dash  it  away. 

Providence  had  almost  three  times  enough  to 
win.  The  team  let  up  in  that  inning  or  grew  over- 
confident or  careless,  and  before  we  knew  what 
had  happened  some  scratch  hits,  and  bases  on 
balls,  and  errors,  gave  us  three  runs  and  left  two 
runners  on  bases.  The  disgusted  bleachers  came 
out  of  their  gloom  and  began  to  whistle  and 
thump.  The  Rube  hit  safely,  sending  another  run 
over  the  plate.  McCall  worked  his  old  trick,  beat- 
ing out  a  slow  bunt. 

Bases  full,  three  runs  to  tie !  With  Ashwell  up 
and  one  out,  the  noise  in  the  bleachers  mounted 
to  a  high-pitched,  shrill,  continuous  sound.  I  got 
up  and  yelled  with  all  my  might  and  could  not 
hear  my  voice.  Ashwell  was  a  dangerous  man  in 
a  pinch.  The  game  was  not  lost  yet.  A  hit,  any- 
thing to  get  Ash  to  first — and  then  Stringer ! 

Ash  laughed  at  Henderson,  taunted  him,  shook 
his  bat  at  him  and  dared  him  to  put  one  over. 
Henderson  did  not  stand  under  fire.  The  ball  he 
pitched  had  no  steam.  Ash  cracked  it — square  on 
the  line  into  the  shortstop's  hands.  The  bleachers 
ceased  yelling. 

Then  Stringer  strode  grimly  to  the  plate.  It 
was  a  hundred  to  one,  in  that  instance,  that  he 


THE   RUBE'S   WATERLOO          113 

would  lose  the  ball.  The  bleachers  let  out  one 
deafening  roar,  then  hushed.  I  would  rather  have 
had  Stringer  at  the  bat  than  any  other  player  in 
the  world,  and  I  thought  of  the  Rube  and  Nan 
and  Milly — and  hope  would  not  die. 

Stringer  swung  mightily  on  the  first  pitch  and 
struck  the  ball  with  a  sharp,  solid  bing!  It  shot 
toward  center,  low,  level,  exceedingly  swift,  and 
like  a  dark  streak  went  straight  into  the  fielder's 
hands.  A  rod  to  right  or  left  would  have  made 
it  a  home  run.  The  crowd  strangled  a  victorious 
yell.  I  came  out  of  my  trance,  for  the  game  was 
over  and  lost.  It  was  the  Rube's  Waterloo. 

I  hurried  him  into  the  dressing  room  and  kept 
close  to  him.  He  looked  like  a  man  who  had  lost 
the  one  thing  worth  while  in  his  life.  I  turned  a 
deaf  ear  to  my  players,  to  everybody,  and  hustled 
the  Rube  out  and  to  the  hotel.  I  wanted  to  be 
near  him  that  night. 

To  my  amaze  we  met  Milly  and  Nan  as  we 
entered  the  lobby.  Milly  wore  a  sweet,  sympa- 
thetic smile.  Nan  shone  more  radiant  than  ever. 
I  simply  stared.  It  was  Milly  who  got  us  all 
through  the  corridor  into  the  parlor.  I  heard  Nan 
talking. 

"Whit,  you  pitched  a  bad  game  but — "  there 
was  the  old  teasing,  arch,  coquettishness — "but 
you  are  the  best  pitcher!" 

"Nan!" 

"Yes!" 


BREAKING  INTO  FAST  COMPANY 

THEY  may  say  baseball  is  the  same  in  the  minor 
leagues  that  it  is  in  the  big  leagues,  but  any  old 
ball  player  or  manager  knows  better.  Where  the 
difference  comes  in,  however,  is  in  the  greater 
excellence  and  unity  of  the  major  players,  a  speed, 
a  daring,  a  finish  that  can  be  acquired  only  in 
competition  with  one  another. 

I  thought  of  this  when  I  led  my  party  into 
Morrisey's  private  box  in  the  grand  stand  of  the 
Chicago  American  League  grounds.  "We  had 
come  to  see  the  Rube's  break  into  fast  company. 
My  great  pitcher,  Whittaker  Hurtle,  the  Rube, 
as  we  called  him,  had  won  the  Eastern  League 
Pennant  for  me  that  season,  and  Morrisey,  the 
Chicago  magnate,  had  bought  him.  Milly,  my 
affianced,  was  with  me,  looking  as  happy  as  she 
was  pretty,  and  she  was  chaperoned  by  her 
mother,  Mrs.  Nelson. 

With  me,  also,  were  two  veterans  of  my  team, 
McCall  and  Spears,  who  lived  in  Chicago,  and 
115 


116   *   THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

who  would  have  traveled  a  few  miles  to  see  the 
Eube  pitch.  And  the  other  member  of  my  party 
was  Mrs.  Hurtle,  the  Eube's  wife,  as  saucy  and 
as  sparkling-eyed  as  when  she  had  been  Nan 
Brown.  Today  she  wore  a  new  tailor-made  gown, 
new  bonnet,  new  gloves — she  said  she  had  deco- 
rated herself  in  a  manner  befitting  the  wife  of  a 
major  league  pitcher. 

Morrisey's  box  was  very  comfortable,  and,  as 
I  was  pleased  to  note,  so  situated  that  we  had  a 
fine  view  of  the  field  and  stands,  and  yet  were 
comparatively  secluded.  The  bleachers  were  fill- 
ing. Some  of  the  Chicago  players  were  on  the 
field  tossing  and  batting  balls;  the  Kube,  how- 
ever, had  not  yet  appeared. 

A  moment  later  a  metallic  sound  was  heard  on 
the  stairs  leading  up  into  the  box.  I  knew  it  for 
baseball  spiked  shoes  clanking  on  the  wood. 

The  Eube,  looking  enormous  in  his  uniform, 
stalked  into  the  box,  knocking  over  two  chairs  as 
he  entered.  He  carried  a  fielder's  glove  in  one 
huge  freckled  hand,  and  a  big  black  bat  in  the 
other. 

Nan,  with  much  dignity  and  a  very  manifest 
pride,  introduced  him  to  Mrs.  Nelson. 

There  was  a  little  chatting,  and  then,  upon  the 
arrival  of  Manager  Morrisey,  we  men  retired  to 
the  back  of  the  box  to  talk  baseball. 

Chicago  was  in  fourth  place  in  the  league  race, 
and  had  a  fighting  chance  to  beat  Detroit  out  for 


BREAKING  INTO  FAST  COMPANY      11V 

the  third  position.  Philadelphia  was  scheduled 
for  that  day,  and  Philadelphia  had  a  great  team. 
It  was  leading  the  race,  and  almost  beyond  all 
question  wonld  land  the  flag.  In  trnth,  only  one 
more  victory  was  needed  to  clinch  the  pennant. 
The  team  had  three  games  to  play  in  Chicago  and 
it  was  to  wind  up  the  season  with  three  in  Wash- 
ington. Six  games  to  play  and  only  one  impera- 
tively important  to  win!  But  baseball  is  uncer- 
tain, and  until  the  Philadelphians  won  that  game 
they  would  be  a  band  of  fiends. 

"Well,  Whit,  this  is  where  you  break  in,"  I 
said.  "Now,  tip  us  straight.  You've  had  more 
than  a  week's  rest.  How's  that  arm?" 

"Grand,  Con,  grand!"  replied  the  Rube  with 
his  frank  smile.  "I  was  a  little  anxious  till  I 
warmed  up.  But  say !  I've  got  more  up  my  sleeve 
today  than  I  ever  had." 

"That'll  do  for  me,"  said  Morrisey,  rubbing 
his  hands.  "I'll  spring  something  on  these 
swelled  Quakers  today.  Now,  Connelly,  give  Hur- 
tle one  of  your  old  talks — the  last  one — and  then 
I'll  ring  the  gong." 

I  added  some  words  of  encouragement,  not  for- 
getting my  old  ruse  to  incite  the  Rube  by  rousing 
his  temper.  And  then,  as  the  gong  rang  and  the 
Rube  was  departing,  Nan  stepped  forward  for 
her  say.  There  was  a  little  white  under  the  tan  on 
her  cheek,  and  her  eyes  had  a  darkling  flash. 

"Whit,  it's  a  magnificent  sight — that  beautiful 


118       THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

green  field  and  the  stands.  "What  a  crowd  of 
fans!  Why,  I  never  saw  a  real  baseball  crowd 
before.  There  are  twenty  thousand  here.  And 
there's  a  difference  in  the  feeling.  It's  sharper 
— new  to  me.  It's  big  league  baseball.  Not  a  soul 
in  that  crowd  ever  heard  of  you,  but,  I  believe, 
tomorrow  the  whole  baseball  world  will  have  heard 
of  you.  Mr.  Morrisey  knows.  I  saw  it  in  his 
face.  Captain  Spears  knows.  Connie  knows.  I 
know." 

Then  she  lifted  her  face  and,  pulling  him  down 
within  reach,  she  kissed  him.  Nan  took  her  hus- 
band's work  in  dead  earnest;  she  gloried  in  it, 
and  perhaps  she  had  as  much  to  do  with  making 
him  a  great  pitcher  as  any  of  us. 

The  Rube  left  the  box,  and  I  found  a  seat  be- 
tween Nan  and  Milly.  The  field  was  a  splendid 
sight.  Those  bleachers  made  me  glow  with  man- 
agerial satisfaction.  On  the  field  both  teams 
pranced  and  danced  and  bounced  around  in  prac- 
tice. 

In  spite  of  the  absolutely  last  degree  of  egotism 
manifested  by  the  Philadelphia  players,  I  could 
not  but  admire  such  a  splendid  body  of  men. 

"So  these  are  the  champions  of  last  season  and 
of  this  season,  too,"  commented  Milly.  "I  don't 
wonder.  How  swiftly  and  cleanly  they  play! 
They  appear  not  to  exert  themselves,  yet  they 
always  get  the  ball  in  perfect  time.  It  all  reminds 
me  of — of  the  rhythm  of  music.  And  that  cham- 


BREAKING  INTO  FAST  COMPANY      119 

pion  batter  and  runner — that  Lane  in  center — 
isn't  he  just  beautiful?  He  walks  and  runs  like  a 
blue-ribbon  winner  at  the  horse  show.  I  tell  you 
one  thing,  Connie,  these  Quakers  are  on  dress 
parade." 

"Oh,  these  Quakers  hate  themselves,  I  don't 
think!"  retorted  Nan.  Being  a  rabid  girl-fan  it 
was,  of  course,  impossible  for  Nan  to  speak  base- 
ball convictions  or  gossip  without  characteristic 
baseball  slang.  "Stuck  on  themselves!  I  never 
saw  the  like  in  my  life.  That  fellow  Lane  is  so 
swelled  that  he  can't  get  down  off  his  toes.  But 
he's  a  wonder,  I  must  admit  that.  They're  a 
bunch  of  stars.  Easy,  fast,  trained — they're  ma- 
chines, and  I'll  bet  they're  Indians  to  fight.  I  can 
see  it  sticking  out  all  over  them.  This  will  cer- 
tainly be  some  game  with  Whit  Handing  up  that 
jump  ball  of  his  to  this  gang  of  champs.  But, 
Connie,  I'll  go  you  Whit  beats  them." 

I  laughed  and  refused  to  gamble. 

The  gong  rang;  the  crowd  seemed  to  hum  and 
rustle  softly  to  quiet  attention ;  Umpire  McClung 
called  the  names  of  the  batteries;  then  the  fa- 
miliar "Play!" 

There  was  the  usual  applause  from  the  grand 
stand  and  welcome  cheers  from  the  bleachers. 
The  Eube  was  the  last  player  to  go  out.  Mor- 
risey  was  a  manager  who  always  played  to  the 
stands,  and  no  doubt  he  held  the  Rube  back  for 
effect.  If  so,  he  ought  to  have  been  gratified. 


120       THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

That  moment  reminded  me  of  my  own  team  and 
andience  upon  the  occasion  of  the  Eube's  debut. 
It  was  the  same — only  here  it  happened  in  the 
big  league,  before  a  championship  team  and 
twenty  thousand  fans. 

The  roar  that  went  up  from  the  bleachers  might 
well  have  scared  an  unseasoned  pitcher  out  of  his 
wits.  And  the  Quakers  lined  up  before  their 
bench  and  gazed  at  this  newcomer  who  had  the 
nerve  to  walk  out  there  to  the  box.  Cogswell 
stood  on  the  coaching  line,  looked  at  the  Eube  and 
then  held  up  both  arms  and  turned  toward  the 
Chicago  bench  as  if  to  ask  Morrisey:  "  Where 
did  you  get  that  1" 

Nan,  quick  as  a  flash  to  catch  a  point,  leaned 
over  the  box-rail  and  looked  at  the  champions 
with  fire  in  her  eye.  "Oh,  you  just  wait!  wait!" 
she  bit  out  between  her  teeth. 

Certain  it  was  that  there  was  no  one  who  knew 
the  Eube  as  well  as  I;  and  I  knew  beyond  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt  that  the  hour  before  me  would 
see  brightening  of  a  great  star  pitcher  on  the  big 
league  horizon.  It  was  bound  to  be  a  full  hour 
for  me.  I  had  much  reason  to  be  grateful  to  Whit 
Hurtle.  He  had  pulled  my  team  out  of  a  rut  and 
won  me  the  pennant,  and  the  five  thousand  dollars 
I  got  for  his  release  bought  the  little  cottage  on 
the  hill  for  Milly  and  me.  Then  there  was  my 
pride  in  having  developed  him.  And  all  that  I 
needed  to  calm  me,  settle  me  down  into  assurance 


BREAKING  INTO  FAST  COMPANY      121 

and  keen  criticism  of  the  game,  was  to  see  the 
Rube  pitch  a  few  balls  with  his  old  incomparable 
speed  and  control. 

Berne,  first  batter  for  the  Quakers,  walked  up 
to  the  plate.  He  was  another  Billy  Hamilton, 
built  like  a  wedge.  I  saw  him  laugh  at  the  long 
pitcher. 

Whit  swayed  back,  coiled  and  uncoiled.  Some- 
thing thin,  white,  glancing,  shot  at  Berne.  He 
ducked,  escaping  the  ball  by  a  smaller  margin 
than  appeared  good  for  his  confidence.  He  spoke 
low  to  the  Rube,  and  what  he  said  was  probably 
not  flavored  with  the  ™i1k  of  friendly  sweet- 
ness. 

"Wild!  What'd  you  look  for?"  called  out 
Cogswell  scornfully.  f '  He 's  from  the  woods ! ' ' 

The  Rube  swung  his  enormously  long  arm,  took 
an  enormous  stride  toward  third  base,  and  pitched 
again.  It  was  one  of  his  queer  deliveries.  The 
ball  cut  the  plate. 

"Ho!  Ho!"  yelled  the  Quakers. 

The  Rube's  next  one  was  his  out  curve.  It 
broke  toward  the  corner  of  the  plate  and  would 
have  been  a  strike  had  not  Berne  popped  it  up. 

Callopy,  the  second  hitter,  faced  the  Rube,  and 
he,  too,  after  the  manner  of  ball  players,  made 
some  remark  meant  only  for  the  Rube's  ears. 
Callopy  was  a  famous  waiter.  He  drove  more 
pitchers  mad  with  his  implacable  patience  than 
any  hitter  in  the  league.  The  first  one  of  the 


122       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

Rube's  he  waited  on  crossed  the  in-corner;  the 
second  crossed  the  out-corner  and  the  third  was 
Rube's  wide,  slow,  tantalizing  "stitch-ball,"  as 
we  call  it,  for  the  reason  that  it  came  so  slow  a 
batter  could  count  the  stitches.  I  believe  Callopy 
waited  on  that  curve,  decided  to  hit  it,  changed 
his  mind  and  waited  some  more,  and  finally  the 
ball  maddened  him  and  he  had  to  poke  at  it,  the 
result  being  a  weak  grounder. 

Then  the  graceful,  powerful  Lane,  champion 
batter,  champion  base  runner,  stepped  to  the 
plate.  How  a  baseball  crowd,  any  crowd,  any- 
where, loves  the  champion  batter!  The  ovation 
Lane  received  made  me  wonder,  with  this  impres- 
sive reception  in  a  hostile  camp,  what  could  be 
the  manner  of  it  on  his  home  field?  Any  boy  ball- 
player from  the  lots  seeing  Lane  knock  the  dirt 
out  of  his  spikes  and  step  into  position  would  have 
known  he  was  a  400  hitter. 

I  was  curious  to  see  what  the  Rube  would  pitch 
Lane.  It  must  have  been  a  new  and  significant 
moment  for  Hurtle.  Some  pitchers  actually  wilt 
when  facing  a  hitter  of  Lane's  reputation.  But 
he,  on  his  baseball  side,  was  peculiarly  unemo- 
tional. Undoubtedly  he  could  get  furious,  but  that 
only  increased  his  effectiveness.  To  my  amaze- 
ment the  Rube  pitched  Lane  a  little  easy  ball,  not 
in  any  sense  like  his  floater  or  stitch-ball,  but  just 
a  little  toss  that  any  youngster  might  have  tossed. 
Of  all  possible  balls,  Lane  was  not  expecting  such 


BREAKING  INTO  FAST  COMPANY      123 

as  that,  and  he  let  it  go.  If  the  nerve  of  it  amazed 
me,  what  did  it  not  do  to  Lane1?  I  saw  his  face 
go  fiery  red.  The  grand  stand  murmured ;  let  out 
one  short  yelp  of  pleasure;  the  Quaker  players 
chaffed  Lane. 

The  pitch  was  a  strike.  I  was  gripping  my 
chair  now,  and  for  the  next  pitch  I  prophesied  the 
Rube 's  wonderful  jump  ball,  which  he  had  not  yet 
used.  He  swung  long,  and  at  the  end  of  his  swing 
seemed  to  jerk  tensely.  I  scarcely  saw  the  ball. 
It  had  marvelous  speed.  Lane  did  not  offer  to  hit 
it,  and  it  was  a  strike.  He  looked  at  the  Rube, 
then  at  Cogswell.  That  veteran  appeared  amused. 
The  bleachers,  happy  and  surprised  to  be  able  to 
yell  at  Lane,  yelled  heartily. 

Again  I  took  it  upon  myself  to  interpret  the 
Rube's  pitching  mind.  He  had  another  ball  that 
he  had  not  used,  a  drop,  an  unhittable  drop.  I 
thought  he  would  use  that  next.  He  did,  and 
though  Lane  reached  it  with  the  bat,  the  hit  was 
a  feeble  one.  He  had  been  fooled  and  the  side 
was  out. 

Poole,  the  best  of  the  Quaker's  pitching  staff, 
walked  out  to  the  slab.  He  was  a  left-hander, 
and  Chicago,  having  so  many  players  who  batted 
left-handed,  always  found  a  southpaw  a  hard 
nut  to  crack.  Cogswell,  field  manager  and  cap- 
tain of  the  Quakers,  kicked  up  the  dust  around 
first  base  and  yelled  to  his  men:  "Git  in  the 
game!" 


124       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

Staats  hit  Poolers  speed  ball  into  deep  short 
and  was  out;  Mitchell  flew  out  to  Berne;  Rand 
grounded  to  second. 

While  the  teams  again  changed  sides  the  fans 
cheered,  and  then  indulged  in  the  first  stretch  of 
the  game.  I  calculated  that  they  would  be  stretch- 
ing their  necks  presently,  trying  to  keep  track  of 
the  Rube's  work.  Nan  leaned  on  the  railing 
absorbed  in  her  own  hope  and  faith.  Milly  chat- 
tered about  this  and  that,  people  in  the  boxes,  and 
the  chances  of  the  game. 

My  own  interest,  while  it  did  not  wholly  pre- 
clude the  fortunes  of  the  Chicago  players  at  the 
bat,  was  mostly  concerned  with  the  Rube's  for- 
tunes in  the  field. 

In  the  Rube's  half  inning  he  retired  Bannister 
and  Blandy  on  feeble  infield  grounders,  and 
worked  Cogswell  into  hitting  a  wide  curve  high 
in  the  air. 

Poole  meant  to  win  for  the  Quakers  if  his  good 
arm  and  cunning  did  not  fail  him,  and  his  pitch- 
ing was  masterly.  McCloskey  fanned,  Hutchin- 
son  fouled  out,  Brewster  got  a  short  safe  fly  just 
out  of  reach,  and  Hoffner  hit  to  second,  forcing 
Brewster. 

With  Dugan  up  for  the  Quakers  in  the  third 
inning,  Cogswell  and  Bannister,  from  the  coach- 
ing lines,  began  to  talk  to  the  Rube.  My  ears, 
keen  from  long  practice,  caught  some  of  the  re- 
marks in  spite  of  the  noisy  bleachers. 


BREAKING  INTO  FAST  COMPANY      125 

"Say,  busher,  you've  lasted  longer 'n  we  ex- 
pected, but  you  don't  know  it!" 

"Gol  darn  you  city  ball  tossers !  Now  you  jest 
let  me  alone ! ' ' 

"We're  comin*  through  the  rye!" 

"My  top-heavy  rustic  friend,  you'll  need  an  air- 
ship presently,  when  you  go  up!" 

All  the  badinage  was  good-natured,  whicK  was 
sure  proof  that  the  Quakers  had  not  arrived  at 
anything  like  real  appreciation  of  the  Rube.  They 
were  accustomed  to  observe  the  trying  out  of 
many  youngsters,  of  whom  ninety-nine  out  of  a 
hundred  failed  to  make  good. 

Dugan  chopped  at  three  strikes  and  slammed 
his  bat  down.  Hucker  hit  a  slow  fly  to  Hoffer. 
Three  men  out  on  five  pitched  balls!  Cogswell, 
old  war  horse  that  he  was,  stood  a  full  moment 
and  watched  the  Rube  as  he  walked  in  to  the 
bench.  An  idea  had  penetrated  Cogswell's  brain, 
and  I  would  have  given  something  to  know  what 
it  was.  Cogswell  was  a  great  baseball  general, 
and  though  he  had  a  preference  for  matured  ball- 
players he  could,  when  pressed,  see  the  quality 
in  a  youngster.  He  picked  up  his  mitt  and  took 
his  position  at  first  with  a  gruff  word  to  his 
players. 

Rand  for  Chicago  opened  with  a  hit,  and  the 
bleachers,  ready  to  strike  fire,  began  to  cheer  and 
stamp.  When  McCloskey,  in  an  attempt  to  sac- 
rifice, beat  out  his  bunt  the  crowd  roared.  Rand, 


126       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

being  slow  on  his  feet,  had  not  attempted  to  make 
third  on  the  play.  Hutchinson  sacrificed,  neatly 
advancing  the  runners.  Then  the  bleachers 
played  the  long  rolling  drum  of  clattering  feet 
with  shrill  whistling  accompaniment.  Brewster 
batted  a  wicked  ground  ball  to  Blandy.  He  dove 
into  the  dust,  came  up  with  the  ball,  and  feinting 
to  throw  home  he  wheeled  and  shot  the  ball  to 
Cogswell,  who  in  turn  shot  it  to  the  plate  to  head 
Band.  Eunner  and  ball  got  there  apparently  to- 
gether, but  Umpire  McClung's  decision  went 
against  Rand.  It  was  fine,  fast  work,  but  how 
the  bleachers  stormed  at  McClung! 

"Rob-b-ber!" 

Again  the  head  of  the  Quakers'  formidable  list 
was  up.  I  knew  from  the  way  that  Cogswell 
paced  the  coaching  box  that  the  word  had  gone 
out  to  look  the  Rube  over  seriously.  There  were 
possibilities  even  in  rubes. 

Berne  carefully  stepped  into  the  batter's  box, 
as  if  he  wanted  to  be  certain  to  the  breadth  of  a 
hair  how  close  he  was  to  the  plate.  He  was  there 
this  time  to  watch  the  Rube  pitch,  to  work  him 
out,  to  see  what  was  what.  He  crouched  low,  and 
it  would  have  been  extremely  hard  to  guess  what 
he  was  up  to.  His  great  play,  however,  was  his 
ability  to  dump  the  ball  and  beat  out  the  throw 
to  first.  It  developed  presently,  that  this  was 
now  his  intention  and  that  the  Rube  knew  it  and 
pitched  him  the  one  ball  which  is  almost  impos- 


BREAKING  INTO  FAST  COMPANY      127 

sible  to  bunt — a  high  incurve,  over  the  inside  cor- 
ner. There  was  no  mistaking  the  Rube's  mag- 
nificent control.  True  as  a  plumb  line  he  shot  up 
the  ball — once,  twice,  and  Berne  fouled  both — two 
strikes.  Grudgingly  he  waited  on  the  next,  but  it, 
too,  was  over  the  corner,  and  Berne  went  out  on 
strikes.  The  great  crowd  did  not,  of  course,  grasp 
the  finesse  of  the  play,  but  Berne  had  struck  out 
— that  was  enough  for  them. 

Callopy,  the  famous  spiker,  who  had  put  many 
a  player  out  of  the  game  for  weeks  at  a  time, 
strode  into  the  batter's  place,  and  he,  too,  was  not 
at  the  moment  making  any  funny  remarks.  The 
Rube  delivered  a  ball  that  all  but  hit  Callopy  fair 
on  the  head.  It  was  the  second  narrow  escape 
for  him,  and  the  roar  he  let  out  showed  how  he 
resented  being  threatened  with  a  little  of  his  own 
medicine.  As  might  have  been  expected,  and 
very  likely  as  the  Rube  intended,  Callopy  hit  the 
next  ball,  a  sweeping  curve,  up  over  the  infield. 

I  was  trying  to  see  all  the  intricate  details  of 
the  motive  and  action  on  the  field,  and  it  was  not 
easy  to  watch  several  players  at  once.  But  while 
Berne  and  Callopy  were  having  their  troubles 
with  the  Rube,  I  kept  the  tail  of  my  eye  on  Cogs- 
well. He  was  prowling  up  and  down  the  third- 
base  line. 

He  was  missing  no  signs,  no  indications,  no 
probabilities,  no  possibilities.  But  he  was  in 
doubt.  Like  a  hawk  he  was  watching  the  Rube, 


128       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

and,  as  well,  the  crafty  batters.  The  inning  might 
not  tell  the  truth  as  to  the  Rube's  luck,  though  it 
would  test  his  control.  The  Rube's  speed  and 
curves,  without  any  head  work,  would  have  made 
him  a  pitcher  of  no  mean  ability,  but  was  this  re- 
markable placing  of  balls  just  accident!  That 
was  the  question. 

When  Berne  walked  to  the  bench  I  distinctly 
heard  him  say :  "  Come  out  of  it,  you  dubs.  I  say 
you  can't  work  him  or  wait  him.  He's  peggin' 
?em  out  of  a  gun ! ' ' 

Several  of  the  Quakers  were  standing  out  from 
the  bench,  all  intent  on  the  Rube.  He  had  stirred 
them  up.  First  it  was  humor ;  then  ridicule,  curi- 
osity, suspicion,  doubt.  And  I  knew  it  would  grow 
to  wonder  and  certainty,  then  fierce  attack  from 
both  tongues  and  bats,  and  lastly — for  ball  play- 
ers are  generous — unstinted  admiration. 

Somehow,  not  only  the  first  climaxes  of  a  game 
but  the  decisions,  the  convictions,  the  reputations 
of  pitchers  and  fielders  evolve  around  the  great 
hitter.  Plain  it  was  that  the  vast  throng  of  spec- 
tators, eager  to  believe  in  a  new  find,  wild  to  wel- 
come a  new  star,  yet  loath  to  trust  to  their  own 
impulsive  judgments,  held  themselves  in  check 
until  once  more  the  great  Lane  had  faced  the 
Rube. 

The  field  grew  tolerably  quiet  just  then.  The 
Rube  did  not  exert  himself.  The  critical  stage 
had  no  concern  for  him.  He  pitched  Lane  a  high 


BREAKING  INTO  FAST  COMPANY      129 

curve,  over  the  plate,  but  in  close,  a  ball  meant 
to  be  hit  and  a  ball  hard  to  hit  safely.  Lane  knew 
that  as  well  as  any  hitter  in  the  world,  so  he  let 
two  of  the  curves  go  by — two  strikes.  Again  the 
Rube  relentlessly  gave  him  the  same  ball;  and 
Lane,  hitting  viciously,  spitefully,  because  he  did 
not  want  to  hit  that  kind  of  a  ball,  sent  up  a  fly 
that  Rand  easily  captured. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!  Pretty  fair,  I  guess !" 
yelled  a  tenor- voiced  fan ;  and  he  struck  the  key- 
note. And  the  bleachers  rose  to  their  feet  and 
gave  the  Rube  the  rousing  cheer  of  the  brother- 
hood of  fans. 

Hoffer  walked  to  first  on  a  base  on  balls. 
Sweeney  advanced  him.  The  Rube  sent  up  a  giant 
fly  to  Callopy.  Then  Staats  hit  safely,  scoring 
the  first  run  of  the  game.  Hoffer  crossed  the 
plate  amid  vociferous  applause.  Mitchell  ended 
the  inning  with  a  fly  to  Blandy. 

What  a  change  had  come  over  the  spirit  of  that 
Quaker  aggregation!  It  was  something  to  make 
a  man  thrill  with  admiration  and,  if  he  happened 
to  favor  Chicago,  to  fire  all  his  fighting  blood. 
The  players  poured  upon  the  Rube  a  continuous 
stream  of  scathing  abuse.  They  would  have  made 
a  raging  devil  of  a  mild-mannered  clergyman* 
Some  of  them  were  skilled  in  caustic  wit,  most  of 
them  were  possessed  of  forked  tongues ;  and  Cogs- 
well, he  of  a  thousand  baseball  battles,  had  a 
genius  for  inflaming  anyone  he  tormented.  This 


130       THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

was  mostly  beyond  the  ken  of  the  audience,  and 
behind  the  back  of  the  umpire,  but  it  was  perfectly 
plain  to  me.  The  Quakers  were  trying  to  rattle 
the  Eube,  a  trick  of  the  game  as  fair  for  one  side 
as  for  the  other.  I  sat  there  tight  in  my  seat, 
grimly  glorying  in  the  way  the  Rube  refused  to 
be  disturbed.  But  the  lion  in  him  was  rampant. 
Fortunately,  it  was  his  strange  gift  to  pitch  better 
the  angrier  he  got;  and  the  more  the  Quakers 
flayed  him,  the  more  he  let  himself  out  to  their 
crushing  humiliation. 

The  innings  swiftly  passed  to  the  eighth  with 
Chicago  failing  to  score  again,  with  Philadelphia 
failing  to  score  at  all.  One  scratch  hit  and  a  sin- 
gle, gifts  to  the  weak  end  of  the  batting  list,  were 
all  the  lank  pitcher  allowed  them.  Long  since  the 
bleachers  had  crowned  the  Eube.  He  was  theirs 
and  they  were  his;  and  their  voices  had  the 
peculiar  strangled  hoarseness  due  to  over-exer- 
tion. The  grand  stand,  slower  to  understand  and 
approve,  arrived  later;  but  it  got  there  about  the 
seventh,  and  ladies'  gloves  and  men's  hats  were 
sacrificed. 

In  the  eighth  the  Quakers  reluctantly  yielded 
their  meed  of  praise,  showing  it  by  a  cessation  of 
their  savage  wordy  attacks  on  the  Eube.  It  was 
a  kind  of  sullen  respect,  wrung  from  the  bosom  of 
great  foes. 

Then  the  ninth  inning  was  at  hand.  As  the 
sides  changed  I  remembered  to  look  at  the 


BREAKING  INTO  FAST  COMPANY      131 

feminine  group  in  our  box.  Milly  was  in  a  most 
beautiful  glow  of  happiness  and  excitement.  Nan 
sat  rigid,  leaning  over  the  rail,  her  face  white 
and  drawn,  and  she  kept  saying  in  a  low  voice: 
"Will  it  never  end?  Will  it  never  end?"  Mrs. 
Nelson  stared  wearily. 

It  was  the  Quakers'  last  stand.  They  faced  it 
as  a  team  that  had  won  many  a  game  in  the  ninth 
with  two  men  out.  Dugan  could  do  nothing  with 
the  Rube's  unhittable  drop,  for  a  drop  curve  was 
his  weakness,  and  he  struck  out.  Hucker  hit  to 
Hoffer,  who  fumbled,  making  the  first  error  of 
the  game.  Poole  dumped  the  ball,  as  evidently 
the  Rube  desired,  for  he  handed  up  a  straight  one, 
but  the  bunt  rolled  teasingly  and  the  Rube,  being 
big  and  tall,  failed  to  field  it  in  time. 

Suddenly  the  whole  field  grew  quiet.  For  the 
first  time  Cogswell's  coaching  was  clearly  heard. 

"One  out!  Take  a  lead!  Take  a  lead!  Go 
through  this  time.  Go  through!" 

Could  it  be  possible,  I  wondered,  that  after  such 
a  wonderful  exhibition  of  pitching  the  Rube  would 
lose  out  in  the  ninth? 

There  were  two  Quakers  on  base,  one  out,  and 
two  of  the  best  hitters  in  the  league  on  deck,  with  a 
chance  of  Lane  getting  up. 

"  Oh !    Oh !    Oh ! "  moaned  Nan. 

I  put  my  hand  on  hers.  "Don't  quit,  Nan. 
You'll  never  forgive  yourself  if  you  quit.  Take 
it  from  me,  Whit  will  pull  out  of  this  hole!" 


132       THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

What  a  hole  that  was  for  the  Rube  on  the  day 
of  his  break  into  fast  company!  I  measured  it 
by  his  remarkable  deliberation.  He  took  a  long 
time  to  get  ready  to  pitch  to  Berne,  and  when  he 
let  drive  it  was  as  if  he  had  been  trifling  all  before 
in  that  game.  I  could  think  of  no  way  to  figure 
it  except  that  when  the  ball  left  him  there  was 
scarcely  any  appreciable  interval  of  time  before 
it  cracked  in  Sweeney's  mitt.  It  was  the  Rube's 
drop,  which  I  believed  unhittable.  Berne  let  it 
go  by,  shaking  his  head  as  McClung  called  it  a 
strike.  Another  followed,  which  Berne  chopped 
at  vainly.  Then  with  the  same  upheaval  of  his 
giant  frame,  the  same  flnging  of  long  arms  and 
lunging  forward,  the  Eube  delivered  a  third  drop. 
And  Berne  failed  to  hit  it. 

The  voiceless  bleachers  stamped  on  the  benches 
and  the  grand  stand  likewise  thundered. 

Callopy  showed  his  craft  by  stepping  back  and 
lining  Rube's  high  pitch  to  left.  Hoffer  leaped 
across  and  plunged  down,  getting  his  gloved  hand 
in  front  of  the  ball.  The  hit  was  safe,  but  Hoffer 's 
valiant  effort  saved  a  tie  score. 

Lane  up !    Three  men  on  bases !    Two  out ! 

Not  improbably  there  were  many  thousand 
spectators  of  that  thrilling  moment  who  pitied 
the  Rube  for  the  fate  which  placed  Lane  at  the 
bat  then.  But  I  was  not  one  of  them.  Never- 
theless my  throat  was  clogged,  my  mouth  dry,  and 
my  ears  full  of  bells.  I  could  have  done  something 


BREAKING  INTO  FAST  COMPANY      133 

terrible  to  Hurtle  for  his  deliberation,  yet  I  knew 
he  was  proving  himself  what  I  had  always  tried 
to  train  him  to  be. 

Then  he  swung,  stepped  out,  and  threw  his  body 
with  the  ball.  This  was  his  rarely  used  pitch,  his 
last  resort,  his  fast  rise  ball  that  jumped  up  a 
little  at  the  plate.  Lane  struck  under  it.  How 
significant  on  the  instant  to  see  old  Cogswell's 
hands  go  up!  Again  the  Rube  pitched,  and  this 
time  Lane  watched  the  ball  go  by.  Two  strikes ! 

That  whole  audience  leaped  to  its  feet,  whis- 
pering, yelling,  screaming,  roaring,  bawling. 

The  Eube  received  the  ball  from  Sweeney  and 
quick  as  lightning  he  sped  it  plateward.  The  great 
Lane  struck  out!  The  game  was  over — Chicago, 
1;  Philadelphia,  0. 

In  that  whirling  moment  when  the  crowd  went 
mad  and  Milly  was  hugging  me,  and  Nan  pound- 
ing holes  in  my  hat,  I  had  a  queer  sort  of  blank- 
ness,  a  section  of  time  when  my  sensations  were 
deadlocked. 

"Oh!  Connie,  look!"  cried  Nan.  I  saw  Lane 
and  Cogswell  warmly  shaking  hands  with  the 
Rube.  Then  the  hungry  clamoring  fans  tumbled 
upon  the  field  and  swarmed  about  the  players. 

Wereupon  Nan  kissed  me  and  Milly,  and  then 
kissed  Mrs.  Nelson.  In  that  radiant  moment  Nan 
was  all  sweetness. 

"It  is  the  Rube's  break  into  fast  company,"  she 
said. 


THE   KNOCKER 

"YES,  Carroll,  I  got  my  notice.  Maybe  it's  no 
surprise  to  you.  And  there 's  one  more  thing  I  want 
to  say.  You're  'it'  on  this  team.  You're  the  top- 
notch  catcher  in  the  Western  League  and  one 
of  the  best  ball  players  in  the  game — but  you're 
a  knocker ! ' 9 

Madge  Ellston  heard  young  Sheldon  speak. 
She  saw  the  flash  in  his  gray  eyes  and  the  heat 
of  his  bronzed  face  as  he  looked  intently  at  the 
big  catcher. 

"Fade  away,  sonny.  Back  to  the  bush-league 
for  yours!"  replied  Carroll,  derisively.  "You're 
not  fast  enough  for  Kansas  City.  You  look  pretty 
good  in  a  uniform  and  you're  swift  on  your  feet, 
but  you  can't  hit.  You've  got  a  glass  arm  and 
you  run  bases  like  an  ostrich  trying  to  side.  That 
notice  was  coming  to  you.  Go  learn  the  game!" 

Then  a  crowd  of  players  trooped  noisily  out  of 
the  hotel  lobby  and  swept  Sheldon  and  Carroll 
down  the  porch  steps  toward  the  waiting  omnibus. 
135 


136       THE   EEDHEADED    OUTFIELD 

Madge  's  uncle  owned  the  Kansas  City  club. 
She  had  lived  most  of  her  nineteen  years  in  a 
baseball  atmosphere,  but  'accustomed  as  she  was 
to  baseball  talk  and  the  peculiar  banterings  and 
bickerings  of  the  players,  there  were  times  when 
it  seemed  all  Greek.  If  a  player  got  his  "notice" 
it  meant  he  would  be  released  in  ten  days.  A 
"knocker''  was  a  ball  player  who  spoke  ill  of 
his  fellow  players.  This  scrap  of  conversation, 
however,  had  an  unusual  interest  because  Carroll 
had  paid  court  to  her  for  a  year,  and  Sheldon, 
coming  to  the  team  that  spring,  had  fallen  des- 
perately in  love  with  her.  She  liked  Sheldon 
pretty  well,  but  Carroll  fascinated  her.  She  began 
to  wonder  if  there  were  bad  feelings  between  the 
rivals — to  compare  them — to  get  away  from  her- 
self and  judge  them  impersonally. 

When  Pat  Donahue,  the  veteran  manager  of 
the  team  came  out,  Madge  greeted  him  with  a 
smile.  She  had  always  gotten  on  famously  with 
Pat,  notwithstanding  her  imperious  desire  to 
handle  the  managerial  reins  herself  upon  occa- 
sions. Pat  beamed  all  over  his  round  ruddy  face. 

"Miss  Madge,  you  weren't  to  the  park  yester- 
day an'  we  lost  without  our  pretty  mascot.  "We 
shure  needed  you.  Denver's  playin*  at  a  fast 
clip." 

"I'm  coming  out  today,"  replied  Miss  Ellston, 
thoughtfully.  "Pat,  what's  a  knocker?" 

"Now,  Miss  Madge,  are  you  askin'  me  that 


THE   KNOCKER  137 

after  IVe  been  coachin'  yon  in  baseball  for 
years  ?"  questioned  Pat,  in  distress. 

"I  know  what  a  knocker  is,  as  everybody  else 
does.  But  I  want  to  know  the  real  meaning,  the 
inside-ball  of  it,  to  use  your  favorite  saying. " 

Studying  her  grave  face  with  shrewd  eyes  Dona- 
hue slowly  lost  his  smile. 

"The  inside-ball  of  it,  eh?  Come,  let's  sit  over 
Here  a  bit — the  sun's  shure  warm  today.  .  .  . 
Miss  Madge,  a  knocker  is  the  strangest  man 
known  in  the  game,  the  hardest  to  deal  with  an' 
what  every  baseball  manager  hates  most." 

Donahue  told  her  that  he  believed  the  term 
"knocker"  came  originally  from  baseball;  that  in 
general  it  typified  the  player  who  strengthened 
his  own  standing  by  belittling  the  ability  of  his 
team-mates,  and  by  enlarging  upon  his  own  su- 
perior qualities.  But  there  were  many  phases  of 
this  peculiar  type.  Some  players  were  natural 
born  knockers ;  others  acquired  the  name  in  their 
later  years  in  the  game  when  younger  men  threat- 
ened to  win  their  places.  Some  of  the  best 
players  ever  produced  by  baseball  had  the  habit 
in  its  most  violent  form.  There  were  players 
of  ridiculously  poor  ability  who  held  their  jobs 
on  the  strength  of  this  one  trait.  It  was  a  mys- 
tery how  they  misled  magnates  and  managers 
alike;  how  for  months  they  held  their  places, 
weakening  a  team,  often  keeping  a  good  team 
down  in  the  race ;  all  from  sheer  bold  suggestion 


138       THE   KEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

of  their  own  worth  and  other  players*  worthless- 
ness.  Strangest  of  all  was  the  knockers '  power 
to  disorganize ;  to  engender  a  bad  spirit  between 
management  and  team  and  among  the  players. 
The  team  which  was  without  one  of  the  parasites 
of  the  game  generally  stood  well  up  in  the  race 
for  the  pennant,  though  there  had  been  cham- 
pionship teams  noted  for  great  knockers  as  well 
as  great  players. 

"It's  shure  strange,  Miss  Madge,"  said  Pat  in 
conclusion,  shaking  his  gray  head.  "I've  played 
hundreds  of  knockers,  an'  released  them,  too. 
Knockers  always  get  it  in  the  end,  but  they  go  on 
foolin'  me  and  workin'  me  just  the  same  as  if  I 
was  a  youngster  with  my  first  team.  They're 
part  an'  parcel  of  the  game." 

"Do  you  like  these  men  off  the  field — outside 
of  baseball,  I  mean?" 

"No,  I  shure  don't,  an'  I  never  seen  one  yet 
that  wasn't  the  same  off  the  field  as  he  was  on." 

"Thank  you,  Pat.  I  think  I  understand  now. 
And — oh,  yes,  there's  another  thing  I  want  to 
ask  you.  What's  the  matter  with  Billie  Sheldon! 
Uncle  George  said  he  was  falling  off  in  his  game. 
Then  I've  read  the  papers.  Billie  started  out 
well  in  the  spring." 

"Didn't  he?  I  was  sure  thinkin'  I  had  a  find 
in  Billie.  Well,  he's  lost  his  nerve.  He's  in  a 
bad  slump.  It's  worried  me  for  days.  I'm  goin' 
to  release  Billie,  The  team  needs  a  shake-up. 


THE   KNOCKER  139 

That's  where  Billie  gets  the  worst  of  it,  for  he's 
really  the  makin'  of  a  star;  but  he's  slumped,  an' 
now  knocldn '  has  made  him  let  down.  There,  Miss 
Madge,  that's  an  example  of  what  I've  just  been 
tellin'  you.  An'  you  can  see  that  a  manager  has 
his  troubles.  These  hulkin'  athletes  are  a  lot  of 
spoiled  babies  an'  I  often  get  sick  of  my  job." 

That  afternoon  Miss  Ellston  was  in  a  brown 
study  all  the  way  out  to  the  baseball  park.  She 
arrived  rather  earlier  than  usual  to  find  the  grand- 
stand empty.  The  Denver  team  had  just  come 
upon  the  field,  and  the  Kansas  City  players  were 
practising  batting  at  the  left  of  the  diamond. 
Madge  walked  down  the  aisle  of  the  grand  stand 
and  out  along  the  reporters'  boxes.  She  asked 
one  of  the  youngsters  on  the  field  to  tell  Mr.  Shel- 
don that  she  would  like  to  speak  with  him  a 
moment. 

Billie  eagerly  hurried  from  the  players'  bench 
with  a  look  of  surprise  and  expectancy  on  his  sun- 
tanned face.  Madge  experienced  for  the  first 
time  a  sudden  sense  of  shyness  at  his  coming.  His 
lithe  form  and  his  nimble  step  somehow  gave 
her  a  pleasure  that  seemed  old  yet  was  new. 
When  he  neared  her,  and,  lifting  his  cap, 
spoke  her  name,  the  shade  of  gloom  in  his 
eyes  and  lines  of  trouble  on  his  face  dispelled  her 
confusion. 

"Billie,  Pat  tells  me  he's  given  you  ten  days' 
notice,"  she  said. 


140       THE   BEDHEADED   OUTFIELU 

"It's  true." 

" What's  wrong  with  you,  Billie?" 

"Oh,  I've  struck  a  bad  streak — can't  hit  or 
throw." 

"Are  you  a  quitter?" 

"No,  I'm  not,"  he  answered  quickly,  flushing 
a  dark  red. 

"You  started  off  this  spring  with  a  rush.  You 
played  brilliantly  and  for  a  while  led  the  team 
in  batting.  Uncle  George  thought  so  well  of  you. 
Then  came  this  spell  of  bad  form.  But,  Billie,  it's 
only  a  slump ;  you  can  brace." 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied,  despondently. 
"Awhile  back  I  got  my  mind  off  the  game.  Then 
— people  who  don 't  like  me  have  taken  advantage 
of  my  slump  to " 

"To  knock,"  interrupted  Miss  Ellston. 

"I'm  not  saying  that,"  he  said,  looking  away 
from  her. 

"But  I'm  saying  it.  See  here,  Billie  Sheldon, 
my  uncle  owns  this  team  and  Pat  Donahue  is  man- 
ager. I  think  they  both  like  me  a  little.  Now  I 
don't  want  to  see  you  lose  your  place.  Per- 
haps  " 

"Madge,  that's  fine  of  you — but  I  think — I  guess 
it'd  be  best  for  me  to  leave  Kansas  City." 

"Why?" 

"You  know,"  he  said  huskily.  "I've  lost  my 
head — I'm  in  love — I  can't  think  of  baseball — 
I'm  crazy  about  you." 


THE   KNOCKER  141 

Miss  Ellston's  sweet  face  grew  rosy,  clear  to 
the  tips  of  her  ears. 

"Billie  Sheldon, "  she  replied,  spiritedly. 
"You're  talking  nonsense.  Even  if  yon  were — 
were  that  way,  it'd  be  no  reason  to  play  poor 
ball.  Don't  throw  the  game,  as  Pat  would  say. 
Make  a  brace!  Get  up  on  your  toes!  Tear 
things!  Rip  the  boards  off  the  fence!  Don't 
quit!" 

She  exhausted  her  vocabulary  of  baseball  lan- 
guage if  not  her  enthusiasm,  and  paused  in  blush- 
ing confusion. 

"Madge!" 

"Will  you  brace  up?" 

"Will  I— will  I!"  he  exclaimed,  breathlessly. 

Madge  murmured  a  hurried  good-bye  and,  turn- 
ing away,  went  up  the  stairs.  Her  uncle  '&  private 
box  was  upon  the  top  of  the  grand  stand  and  she 
reached  it  in  a  somewhat  bewildered  state  of 
mind.  She  had  a  confused  sense  of  having  ap- 
peared to  encourage  Billie,  and  did  not  know 
whether  she  felt  happy  or  guilty.  The  flame  in 
his  eyes  had  warmed  all  her  blood.  Then,  as  she 
glanced  over  the  railing  to  see  the  powerful  Burns 
Carroll,  there  rose  in  her  breast  a  panic  at  strange 
variance  with  her  other  feelings. 

Many  times  had  Madge  Ellston  viewed  the  field 
and  stands  and  the  outlying  country  from  this 
high  vantage  point;  but  never  with  the  same 
mingling  emotions,  nor  had  the  sunshine  ever 


142       THE   BEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

been  so  golden,  the  woods  and  meadows  so  green, 
the  diamond  so  smooth  and  velvety,  the  whole 
scene  so  gaily  bright. 

Denver  had  always  been  a  good  drawing  card, 
and  having  won  the  first  game  of  the  present 
series,  bade  fair  to  draw  a  record  attendance. 
The  long  lines  of  bleachers,  already  packed  with 
the  familiar  mottled  crowd,  sent  forth  a  merry, 
rattling  hum.  Soon  a  steady  stream  of  well- 
dressed  men  and  women  poured  in  the  gates  and 
up  the  grand-stand  stairs.  The  soft  murmur  of 
many  voices  in  light  conversation  and  laughter 
filled  the  air.  The  peanut  venders  and  score-card 
sellers  kept  up  their  insistent  shrill  cries.  The 
baseball  park  was  alive  now  and  restless;  the 
atmosphere  seemed  charged  with  freedom  and 
pleasure.  The  players  romped  like  skittish  colts, 
the  fans  shrieked  their  witticisms — all  sound  and 
movements  suggested  play. 

Madge  Ellston  was  somehow  relieved  to  see 
her  uncle  sitting  in  one  of  the  lower  boxes.  Dur- 
ing this  game  she  wanted  to  be  alone,  and  she 
believed  she  would  be,  for  the  President  of  the 
League  and  directors  of  the  Kansas  City  team 
were  with  her  uncle.  When  the  bell  rang  to  call 
the  Denver  team  in  from  practice  the  stands  could 
hold  no  more,  and  the  roped-off  side  lines  were 
filling  up  with  noisy  men  and  boys.  From  her 
seat  Madge  could  see  right  down  upon  the 
players'  bench,  and  when  she  caught  both  Shel- 


THE   KNOCKER  143 

fdon  and  Carroll  gazing  upward  she  drew  back 
with  sharply  contrasted  thrills. 

Then  the  bell  rang  again,  the  bleachers  rolled 
out  their  welcoming  acclaim,  and  play  was  called 
with  Kansas  City  at  the  bat. 

Eight  off  the  reel  Hnnt  hit  a  short  fly  safely 
over  second.  The  ten  thousand  spectators  burst 
into  a  roar.  A  good  start  liberated  applanse  and 
marked  the  feeling  for  the  day. 

Madge  was  surprised  and  glad  to  see  Billie 
Sheldon  start  next  for  the  plate.  All  season,  until 
lately,  he  had  been  the  second  batter.  During  his 
slump  he  had  been  relegated  to  the  last  place  on 
the  batting  list.  Perhaps  he  had  asked  Pat  to  try 
him  once  more  at  the  top.  The  bleachers  voiced 
their  unstinted  appreciation  of  this  return,  show- 
ing that  Billie  still  had  a  strong  hold  on  their 
hearts. 

As  for  Madge,  her  breast  heaved  and  she  had 
difficulty  in  breathing.  This  was  going  to  be  a 
hard  game  for  her.  The  intensity  of  her  desire 
to  see  Billie  brace  up  to  his  old  form  amazed  her. 
And  Carroll's  rude  words  beat  thick  in  her  ears. 
Never  before  had  Billie  appeared  so  instinct  with 
life,  so  intent  and  strung  as  when  he  faced  Keene, 
the  Denver  pitcher.  That  worthy  tied  himself  up 
in  a  knot,  and  then,  unlimbering  a  long  arm,  de- 
livered the  brand  new  ball. 

Billie  seemed  to  leap  forward  and  throw  his 
bat  at  it.  There  was  a  sharp  ringing  crack — and 


144       THE   KEDHEADED    OUTFIELD 

the  ball  was  like  a  white  string  marvelously  stretch- 
ing out  over  the  players,  over  the  green  field  be- 
yond, and  then,  sailing,  soaring,  over  the  right- 
field  fence.  For  a  moment  the  stands,  even  the 
bleachers,  were  stone  quiet.  No  player  had  ever 
hit  a  ball  over  that  fence.  It  had  been  deemed 
impossible,  as  was  attested  to  by  the  many  painted 
"ads"  offering  prizes  for  snch  a  feat.  Suddenly 
the  far  end  of  the  bleachers  exploded  and  the 
swelling  roar  rolled  up  to  engulf  the  grand  stand 
in  thunder.  Billie  ran  round  the  bases  to  applause 
never  before  vented  on  that  field.  But  he  gave  no 
sign  that  it  affected  him;  he  did  not  even  doff 
his  cap.  White-faced  and  stern,  he  hurried  to  the 
bench,  where  Pat  fell  all  over  him  and  many  of 
the  players  grasped  his  hands. 

Up  in  her  box  Madge  was  crushing  her  score- 
card  and  whispering:  "Oh!  Billie,  I  could  hug 
you  for  that!" 

Two  runs  on  two  pitched  balls!  That  was  an 
opening  to  stir  an  exacting  audience  to  the  high- 
est pitch  of  enthusiasm.  The  Denver  manager 
peremptorily  called  Keene  off  the  diamond  and 
sent  in  Steele,  a  south-paw,  who  had  always  both- 
ered Pat's  left-handed  hitters.  That  move 
showed  his  astute  judgment,  for  Steele  struck  out 
McEeady  and  retired  Curtis  and  Mahew  on  easy 
chances. 

It  was  Dalgren's  turn  to  pitch  and  though  he 
had  shown  promise  in  several  games  he  had  not 


THE   KNOCKEE  145 

yet  been  tried  out  on  a  team  of  Denver's  strength. 
The  bleachers  gave  him  a  good  cheering  as  he 
walked  into  the  box,  but  for  all  that  they  whistled 
their  wonder  at  Pat's  assurance  in  putting  him 
against  the  Cowboys  in  an  important  game. 

The  lad  was  visibly  nervous  and  the  hard-hit- 
ting and  loud-coaching  Denver  players  went  after 
him  as  if  they  meant  to  drive  him  out  of  the 
game.  Crane  stung  one  to  left  center  for  a  base, 
Moody  was  out  on  a  liner  to  short,  almost  doubling 
up  Crane ;  the  fleet-footed  Bluett  bunted  and  beat 
the  throw  to  first ;  Langly  drove  to  left  for  what 
seemed  a  three-bagger,  but  Curtis,  after  a  hard 
run,  caught  the  ball  almost  off  the  left-field  bleach- 
ers. Crane  and  Bluett  advanced  a  base  on  the 
throw-in.  Then  Kane  batted  up  a  high  foul-fly. 
Burns  Carroll,  the  Kansas  City  catcher,  had  the 
reputation  of  being  a  fiend  for  chasing  foul  flies, 
and  he  dashed  at  this  one  with  a  speed  that 
threatened  a  hard  fall  over  the  players'  bench  or 
a  collision  with  the  fence.  Carroll  caught  the  ball 
and  crashed  against  the  grand  stand,  but  leaped 
back  with  an  agility  that  showed  that  if  there  was 
any  harm  done  it  had  not  been  to  him. 

Thus  the  sharp  inning  ended  with  a  magnificent 
play.  It  electrified  the  spectators  into  a  fierce 
energy  of  applause.  With  one  accord,  by  base- 
ball instinct,  the  stands  and  bleachers  and  roped- 
in-sidelines  realized  it  was  to  be  a  game  of  games 
and  they  answered  to  the  stimulus  with  a  savage 


146       THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

enthusiasm  that  inspired  ballplayers  to  great 
plays. 

In  the  first  half  of  the  second  inning,  Steele's 
will  to  do  and  his  arm  to  execute  were  very  like 
his  name.  Kansas  City  could  not  score.  In  their 
half  the  Denver  team  made  one  run  by  clean 
hitting. 

Then  the  closely  fought  advantage  see-sawed 
from  one  team  to  the  other.  It  was  not  a  pitchers * 
battle,  though  both  men  worked  to  the  limit  of 
skill  and  endurance.  They  were  hit  hard.  Daz- 
zling plays  kept  the  score  down  and  the  innings 
short.  Over  the  fields  hung  the  portent  of  some- 
thing to  come,  every  player,  every  spectator  felt 
the  subtle  baseball  chance;  each  inning  seemed 
to  lead  closer  and  more  thrillingly  up  to  the 
climax.  But  at  the  end  of  the  seventh,  with  the 
score  tied  six  and  six,  with  daring  steals,  hard 
hits  and  splendid  plays,  enough  to  have  made 
memorable  several  games,  it  seemed  that  the  great 
portentous  moment  was  still  in  abeyance. 

The  head  of  the  batting  list  for  Kansas  City  was 
np.  Hunt  caught  the  first  pitched  ball  squarely 
on  the  end  of  his  bat.  It  was  a  mighty  drive  and 
as  the  ball  soared  and  soared  over  the  center-field 
Hunt  raced  down  the  base  line,  and  the  winged- 
footed  Crane  sped  outward,  the  bleachers  split 
their  throats.  The  hit  looked  good  for  a  home 
run,  but  Crane  leaped  up  and  caught  the  ball  in 
his  gloved  hand.  The  sudden  silence  and  then 


THE   KNOCKER  147 

the  long  groan  which  racked  the  bleachers  was 
greater  tribute  to  Crane's  play  than  any  ap- 
plause. 

Billie  Sheldon  then  faced  Steele.  The  fans 
roared  hoarsely,  for  Billie  had  hit  safely  three 
times  out  of  four.  Steele  used  his  curve  ball,  but 
he  could  not  get  the  batter  to  go  after  it.  When 
he  had  wasted  three  balls,  the  never-despairing 
bleachers  howled:  "Now,  Billie,  in  your  groove! 
Sting  the  next  one!"  But  Billie  waited.  One 
strike !  Two  strikes !  Steele  cut  the  plate.  That 
was  a  test  which  proved  Sheldon's  caliber. 

With  seven  innings  of  exciting  play  passed, 
with  both  teams  on  edge,  with  the  bleachers  wild 
and  the  grand  stands  keyed  up  to  the  breaking 
point,  with  everything  making  deliberation  almost 
impossible,  Billie  Sheldon  had  remorselessly 
waited  for  three  balls  and  two  strikes. 

"Now!  .  .  .  Now!  .  .  .  Now!"  shrieked  the 
bleachers. 

Steele  had  not  tired  nor  lost  his  cunning.  With 
hands  before  him  he  grimly  studied  Billie,  then 
whirling  hard  to  get  more  weight  into  his  motion, 
he  threw  the  ball. 

Billie  swung  perfectly  and  cut  a  curving  liner 
between  the  first  baseman  and  the  base.  Like  a 
shot  it  skipped  over  the  grass  out  along  the  foul- 
line  into  right  field.  Amid  tremendous  uproar 
Billie  stretched  the  hit  into  a  triple,  and  when  he 
got  up  out  of  the  dust  after  his  slide  into  third 


148       THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

the  noise  seemed  to  be  the  crashing  down  of  the 
bleachers.  It  died  out  with  the  choking  gurgling 
yell  of  the  most  leather-lunged  fan. 

"0-o-o-o-you-Billie-e!" 

McReady  marched  up  and  promptly  hit  a  long 
fly  to  the  redoubtable  Crane.  Billie  crouched  in 
a  sprinter's  position  with  his  eye  on  the  graceful 
fielder,  waiting  confidently  for  the  ball  to  drop. 
As  if  there  had  not  already  been  sufficient  heart- 
rending moments,  the  chance  that  governed  base- 
ball meted  out  this  play ;  one  of  the  keenest,  most 
trying  known  to  the  game.  Players  waited,  spec- 
tators waited,  and  the  instant  of  that  dropping 
ball  was  interminably  long.  Everybody  knew 
Crane  would  catch  it;  everybody  thought  of  the 
wonderful  throwing  arm  that  had  made  him 
famous.  Was  it  possible  for  Billie  Sheldon  to 
beat  the  throw  to  the  plate? 

Crane  made  the  catch  and  got  the  ball  away  at 
the  same  instant  Sheldon  leaped  from  the  base 
and  dashed  for  home.  Then  all  eyes  were  on  the 
ball.  It  seemed  incredible  that  a  ball  thrown  by 
human  strength  could  speed  plateward  so  low,  so 
straight,  so  swift.  But  it  lost  its  force  and  slanted 
down  to  bound  into  the  catcher's  hands  just  as 
Billie  slid  over  the  plate. 

By  the  time  the  bleachers  had  stopped  stamping 
and  bawling,  Curtis  ended  the  inning  with  a  diffi- 
cult grounder  to  the  infield. 

Once  more  the  Kansas  City  players  took  the 


THE   KNOCKER  149 

field  and  Burns  Carroll  sang  out  in  his  lusty  voice : 
"Keep  lively,  boys!  Play  hard!  Dig  'em  up  an* 
get  'em!"  Indeed  the  big  catcher  was  the  main- 
stay of  the  home  team.  The  bulk  of  the  work  fell 
upon  his  shoulders.  Dalgren  was  wild  and  kept 
his  catcher  continually  blocking  low  pitches  and 
wide  curves  and  poorly  controlled  high  fast  balls. 
But  they  were  all  alike  to  Carroll.  Despite  his 
weight,  he  was  as  nimble  on  his  feet  as  a  goat, 
and  if  he  once  got  his  hands  on  the  ball  he  never 
missed  it.  It  was  his  encouragement  that  steadied 
Dalgren ;  his  judgment  of  hitters  that  carried  the 
young  pitcher  through  dangerous  places;  his 
lightning  swift  grasp  of  points  that  directed  the 
machine-like  work  of  his  team. 

In  this  inning  Carroll  exhibited  another  of  his 
demon  chases  after  a  foul  fly ;  he  threw  the  base- 
stealing  Crane  out  at  second,  and  by  a  remarkable 
leap  and  stop  of  McReady's  throw,  he  blocked  a 
runner  who  would  have  tied  the  score. 

The  Cowboys  blanked  their  opponents  in  the 
first  half  of  the  ninth,  and  trotted  in  for  their 
turn  needing  one  run  to  tie,  two  runs  to  win. 

There  had  scarcely  been  a  breathing  spell  for 
the  onlookers  in  this  rapid-fire  game.  Every 
inning  had  held  them,  one  moment  breathless,  the 
next  wildly  clamorous,  and  another  waiting  in 
numb  fear.  What  did  these  last  few  moments 
hold  in  store?  The  only  answer  to  that  was  the 
dogged  plugging  optimism  of  the  Denver  players. 


150       THE   EEDHEADED    OUTFIELD 

To  listen  to  them,  to  watch  them,  was  to  gather 
the  impression  that  baseball  fortune  always  fav- 
ored them  in  the  end. 

"Only  three  more,  Dal.  Steady  boys,  it's  our 
game,"  rolled  out  Carroll's  deep  bass.  How 
virile  he  was!  What  a  tower  of  strength  to  the 
weakening  pitcher ! 

But  valiantly  as  Dalgren  tried  to  respond,  he 
failed.  The  grind — the  strain  had  been  too  severe. 
When  he  finally  did  locate  the  plate  Bluett  hit 
safely.  Langley  bunted  along  the  base  line  and 
beat  the  ball. 

A  blank,  dead  quiet  settled  down  over  the 
bleachers  and  stands.  Something  fearful  threat- 
ened. What  might  not  come  to  pass,  even  at  the 
last  moment  of  this  nerve-racking  game?  There 
was  a  runner  on  first  and  a  runner  on  second. 
That  was  bad.  Exceedingly  bad  was  it  that  these 
runners  were  on  base  with  nobody  out.  Worst 
of  all  was  the  fact  that  Kane  was  up.  Kane,  the 
best  bunter,  the  fastest  man  to  first,  the  hardest 
hitter  in  the  league!  That  he  would  fail  to  ad- 
vance those  two  runners  was  scarcely  worth  con- 
sideration. Once  advanced,  a  fly  to  the  outfield, 
a  scratch,  anything  almost,  would  tie  the  score. 
So  this  was  the  climax  presaged  so  many  times 
earlier  in  the  game.  Dalgren  seemed  to  wilt  under 
it. 

Kane  swung  his  ash  viciously  and  called  on 
Dalgren  to  put  one  over.  Dalgren  looked  in 


THE   KNOCKER  151 

toward  the  bench  as  if  he  wanted  and  expected  to 
be  taken  out.  But  Pat  Donahue  made  no  sign. 
Pat  had  trained  many  a  pitcher  by  forcing  him 
to  take  his  medicine.  Then  Carroll,  mask  under 
his  arm,  rolling  his  big  hand  in  his  mitt,  sauntered 
down  to  the  pitcher's  box.  The  sharp  order  of 
the  umpire  in  no  wise  disconcerted  him.  He  said 
something  to  Dalgren,  vehemently  nodding  his 
head  the  while.  Players  and  audience  alike  sup- 
posed he  was  trying  to  put  a  little  heart  into  Dal- 
gren, and  liked  him  the  better,  notwithstanding 
the  opposition  to  the  umpire. 

Carroll  sauntered  back  to  his  position.  He  ad- 
justed his  breast  protector,  and  put  on  his  mask, 
deliberately  taking  his  time.  Then  he  stepped  be- 
hind the  plate,  and  after  signing  for  the  pitch,  he 
slowly  moved  his  right  hand  up  to  his  mask. 

Dalgren  wound  up,  took  his  swing,  and  let  drive. 
Even  as  he  delivered  the  ball  Carroll  bounded 
away  from  his  position,  flnging  off  the  mask  as 
he  jumped.  For  a  single  fleeting  instant,  the 
catcher's  position  was  vacated.  But  that  instant 
was  long  enough  to  make  the  audience  gasp.  Kane 
bunted  beautifully  down  the  third  base  line,  and 
there  Carroll  stood,  fifteen  feet  from  the  plate, 
agile  as  a  huge  monkey.  He  whipped  the  ball  to 
Mahew  at  third.  Mahew  wheeled  quick  as  thought 
and  lined  the  ball  to  second.  Sheldon  came  tear- 
ing for  the  bag,  caught  the  ball  on  the  run,  and 
with  a  violent  stop  and  wrench  threw  it  like  a 


152       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

bullet  to  first  base.  Fast  as  Kane  was,  the  ball 
beat  him  ten  feet.  A  triple  play ! 

The  players  of  both  teams  cheered,  but  the 
audience,  slower  to  grasp  the  complex  and  in- 
tricate points,  needed  a  long  moment  to  realize 
what  had  happened.  They  needed  another  to 
divine  that  Carroll  had  anticipated  Kane's  inten- 
tion to  bunt,  had  left  his  position  as  the  ball  was 
pitched,  had  planned  all,  risked  all,  played  all  on 
Kane's  sure  eye;  and  so  he  had  retired  the  side 
and  won  the  game  by  creating  and  executing  the 
rarest  play  in  baseball. 

Then  the  audience  rose  in  a  body  to  greet  the 
great  catcher.  What  a  hoarse  thundering  roar 
shook  the  stands  and  waved  in  a  blast  over  the 
field!  Carroll  stood  bowing  his  acknowledgment, 
and  then  swaggered  a  little  with  the  sun  shining 
on  his  handsome  heated  face.  Like  a  conqueror 
conscious  of  full  blown  power  he  stalked  away  to 
the  clubhouse. 

Madge  Ellston  came  out  of  her  trance  and 
viewed  the  ragged  score-card,  her  torn  parasol, 
her  battered  gloves  and  flying  hair,  her  generally 
disheveled  state  with  a  little  start  of  dismay,  but 
when  she  got  into  the  thick  and  press  of  the  mov- 
ing crowd  she  found  all  the  women  more  or  less 
disheveled.  And  they  seemed  all  the  prettier  and 
friendlier  for  that.  It  was  a  happy  crowd  and 
voices  were  conspicuously  hoarse. 

When   Madge   entered   the   hotel   parlor   that 


THE   KNOCKER  153 

evening  she  found  her  uncle  with  guests  and 
among  them  was  Burns  Carroll.  The  presence 
of  the  handsome  giant  affected  Madge  more  im- 
pellingly  than  ever  before,  yet  in  some  inex- 
plicably different  way.  She  found  herself  trem- 
bling; she  sensed  a  crisis  in  her  feelings  for  this 
man  and  it  frightened  her.  She  became  conscious 
suddenly  that  she  had  always  been  afraid  of  him. 
Watching  Carroll  receive  the  congratulations  of 
many  of  those  present,  she  saw  that  he  dominated 
them  as  he  had  her.  His  magnetism  was  over- 
powering; his  great  stature  seemed  to  fill  the 
room ;  his  easy  careless  assurance  emanated  from 
superior  strength.  When  he  spoke  lightly  of  the 
game,  of  Crane's  marvelous  catch,  of  Dalgren's 
pitching  and  of  his  own  triple  play,  it  seemed  these 
looming  features  retreated  in  perspective — some- 
how lost  their  vital  significance  because  he  slighted 
them. 

In  the  light  of  Carroll's  illuminating  talk,  in  the 
remembrance  of  Sheldon's  bitter  denunciation,  in 
the  knowledge  of  Pat  Donahue's  estimate  of  a 
peculiar  type  of  ball-player,  Madge  Ellston  found 
herself  judging  the  man — bravely  trying  to  resist 
his  charm,  to  be  fair  to  him  and  to  herself. 

Carroll  soon  made  his  way  to  her  side  and 
greeted  her  with  his  old  familiar  manner  of  pos- 
session. However  irritating  it  might  be  to  Madge 
when  alone,  now  it  held  her  bound. 

Carroll  possessed  the  elemental  attributes  of  a 


154       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

conqueror.  When  with  him  Madge  whimsically 
feared  that  he  would  snatch  her  up  in  his  arms 
and  carry  her  bodily  off,  as  the  warriors  of  old 
did  with  the  women  they  wanted.  But  she  began 
to  believe  that  the  fascination  he  exercised  upon 
her  was  merely  physical.  That  gave  her  pause. 
Not  only  was  Burns  Carroll  on  trial,  but  also  a 
very  foolish  fluttering  little  moth — herself.  It 
was  time  enough,  however,  to  be  stern  with  her- 
self after  she  had  tried  him. 

"Wasn't  that  a  splendid  catch  of  Crane's  to- 
day ?"  she  asked. 

"A  lucky  stab!  Crane  has  a  habit  of  running 
round  like  an  ostrich  and  sticking  out  a  hand  to 
catch  a  ball.  It's  a  grand-stand  play.  Why,  a 
good  outfielder  would  have  been  waiting  under 
that  fly." 

"Dalgren  did  fine  work  in  the  box,  don't  you 
think?" 

"Oh,  the  kid's  all  right  with  an  old  head  back 
of  the  plate.  He's  wild,  though,  and  will  never 
make  good  in  fast  company.  I  won  his  game  to- 
day. He  wouldn't  have  lasted  an  inning  without 
me.  It  was  dead  wrong  for  Pat  to  pitch  him. 
Dalgren  simply  can't  pitch  and  he  hasn't  sand 
enough  to  learn." 

A  hot  retort  trembled  upon  Madge  Ellston's 
lips,  but  she  withheld  it  and  quietly  watched  Car- 
roll. How  complacent  he  was,  how  utterly  self- 
contained  ! 


THE   KNOCKER  155 

"And  Billie  Sheldon — wasn't  it  good  to  see  him 
"brace?  What  hitting!  .  .  .  That  home 
run!" 

"Sheldon  flashed  up  today.  That's  the  worst 
of  such  players.  This  talk  of  his  slump  is  all  rot. 
When  he  joined  the  team  he  made  some  lucky  hits 
and  the  papers  lauded  him  as  a  comer,  but  he 
soon  got  down  to  his  real  form.  Why,  to  break 
into  a  game  now  and  then,  to  shut  his  eyes  and 
hit  a  couple  on  the  nose — that's  not  baseball. 
Pat's  given  him  ten  days'  notice,  and  his  release 
will  be  a  good  move  for  the  team.  Sheldon's  not 
fast  enough  for  this  league. ' ' 

"I'm  sorry.  He  seemed  so  promising,"  replied 
Madge.  "I  liked  Billy— pretty  well." 

"Yes,  that  was  evident,"  said  Carroll,  firing 
up.  "I  never  could  understand  what  you  saw  in 
him.  Why,  Sheldon's  no  good.  He " 

Madge  turned  a  white  face  that  silenced  Car- 
roll. She  excused  herself  and  returned  to  the 
parlor,  where  she  had  last  seen  her  uncle.  Not 
finding  him  there,  she  went  into  the  long  corridor 
and  met  Sheldon,  Dalgren  and  two  more  of  the 
players.  Madge  congratulated  the  young  pitcher 
and  the  other  players  on  their  brilliant  work ;  and 
they,  not  to  be  outdone,  gallantly  attributed  the 
day's  victory  to  her  presence  at  the  game.  Then, 
without  knowing  in  the  least  how  it  came  about, 
she  presently  found  herself  alone  with  Billy,  and 
they  were  strolling  into  the  music-room. 


156       THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD! 

"Madge,  did  I  brace  up?" 

The  girl  risked  one  quick  look  at  him.  How 
boyish  he  seemed,  how  eager!  What  an  alto- 
gether different  Billie!  But  was  the  difference 
all  in  him !  Somehow,  despite  a  conscious  shyness 
in  the  moment  she  felt  natural  and  free,  without 
the  uncertainty  and  restraint  that  had  always 
troubled  her  while  with  him. 

"Oh,  Billie,  that  glorious  home  run!" 

* '  Madge,  wasn  't  that  hit  a  dandy  ?  How  I  made 
it  is  a  mystery,  but  the  bat  felt  like  a  feather.  I 
thought  of  you.  Tell  me — what  did  you  think 
when  I  hit  that  ball  over  the  fence?" 

"Billie,  I'll  never,  never  tell  you." 

"Yes — please — I  want  to  know.  Didn't  you 
think  something — nice  of  me?" 

The  pink  spots  in  Madge's  cheeks  widened  to 
crimson  flames. 

"Billie,  are  you  still — crazy  about  me?  Now, 
don't  come  so  close.  Can't  you  behave  yourself? 
And  don't  break  my  fingers  with  you  terrible 
baseball  hands.  .  .  .  Well,  when  you  made  that 
hit  I  just  collapsed  and  I  said " 


. .  i 


;Say  it!    Say  it!"  implored  Billie. 

She  lowered  her  face  and  then  bravely  raised 
it. 

"I  said,  'Billie,  I  could  hug  you  for  that!'  .  .  . 
Billie,  let  me  go !  Oh,  you  mustn  't ! — please ! ' ' 

Quite  a  little  while  afterward  Madge  remem- 
bered to  tell  Billie  that  she  had  been  seeking  her 


THE   KNOCKER  157 

uncle.  They  met  him  and  Pat  Donahue,  coming 
ont  of  the  parlor. 

"Where  have  you  been  all  evening?"  demanded 
Mr.  Ellston. 

"Share  it  looks  as  if  she's  signed  a  new  man- 
ager," said  Pat,  his  shrewd  eyes  twinkling. 

The  soft  glow  in  Madge's  cheeks  deepened  into 
tell-tale  scarlet;  Billie  resembled  a  schoolboy 
stricken  in  guilt. 

"Aha!  so  that's  it?"  queried  her  uncle. 

"Ellston,"  said  Pat.  " Billie 's  home-run  drive 
today  recalled  his  notice  an'  if  I  don't  miss  guess 
it  won  him  another  game — the  best  game  in  life." 

"By  George!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Ellston.  "I  was 
afraid  it  was  Carroll!" 

He  led  Madge  away  and  Pat  followed  with! 
Billie. 

"Shure,  it  was  good  to  see  you  brace,  Billie," 
said  the  manager,  with  a  kindly  hand  on  the  young 
man's  arm.  "I'm  tickled  to  death.  That  ten 
days'  notice  doesn't  go.  See?  I've  had  to  shake 
up  the  team  but  your  job  is  good.  I  released 
McEeady  outright  an'  traded  Carroll  to  Denver 
for  a  catcher  and  a  fielder.  Some  of  the  directors 
hollered  murder,  an'  I  expect  the  fans  will  roar, 
but  I'm  running  this  team,  I'll  have  harmony 
among  my  players.  Carroll  is  a  great  catcher, 
but  he's  a  knocker." 


THE  WINNING  BALL 

day  in  July  our  Rochester  club,  leader  in 
the  Eastern  League,  had  returned  to  the  hotel 
after  winning  a  double-header  from  the  Syracuse 
club.  For  some  occult  reason  there  was  to  be  a 
lay-off  next  day  and  then  on  the  following  another 
double-header.  These  double-headers  we  hated 
next  to  exhibition  games.  Still  a  lay-off  for 
twenty-four  hours,  at  that  stage  of  the  race,  was  a 
Godsend,  and  we  received  the  news  with  exclama- 
tions of  pleasure. 

After  dinner  we  were  all  sitting  and  smoking 
comfortably  in  front  of  the  hotel  when  our  man- 
ager, Merritt,  came  hurriedly  out  of  the  lobby. 
It  struck  me  that  he  appeared  a  little  flustered. 

"Say,  you  fellars,"  he  said  brusquely.  "Pack 
your  suits  and  be  ready  for  the  bus  at  seven- 
thirty." 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  blank,  ominous 
silence,  while  we  assimilated  the  meaning  of  his 
terse  speech. 

159 


160       THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

"I've  got  a  good  thing  on  for  tomorrow/'  con- 
tinued the  manager.  ''Sixty  per  cent  gate  re- 
ceipts if  we  win.  That  Guelph  team  is  hot  stuff, 
though. " 

"Guelph!"  exclaimed  some  of  the  players  sus- 
piciously. "Where's  Guelph?" 

"It's  in  Canada.  We'll  take  the  night  express 
an*  get  there  tomorrow  in  time  for  the  game. 
An'  we'll  hev  to  hustle." 

Upon  Merritt  then  rained  a  multiplicity  of  ex- 
cuses. Gillinger  was  not  well,  and  ought  to  have 
that  day's  rest.  Snead's  eyes  would  profit  by  a 
lay-off.  Deerfoot  Browning  was  leading  ;tEe 
league  in  base  running,  and  as  his  legs  were  all 
bruised  and  scraped  by  sliding,  a  manager  who 
was  not  an  idiot  would  have  a  care  of  such  valu- 
able runmakers  for  his  team.  Lake  had  "Charley- 
horse."  Hathaway 's  arm  was  sore.  Bane's 
stomach  threatened  gastritis.  Spike  Doran's 
finger  needed  a  chance  to  heal.  I  was  stale,  and 
the  other  players,  three  pitchers,  swore  their 
arms  should  be  in  the  hospital. 

"Cut  it  out!"  said  Merritt,  getting  exasper- 
ated. "You'd  all  lay  down  on  me — now,  wouldn't 
you?  Well,  listen  to  this:  McDougal  pitched  to- 
day; he  doesn't  go.  Blake  works  Friday,  he 
doesn't  go.  But  the  rest  of  you  puffed-up,  high- 
salaried  stiffs  pack  your  grips  quick.  See?  It'll 
cost  any  fresh  fellar  fifty  for  missin'  the  train." 

So  that  was  how  eleven  of  the  Kochester  team 


THE   WINNING  BALL  161 

found  themselves  moodily  boarding  a  Pullman  en 
route  for  Buffalo  and  Canada.  We  went  to  bed 
early  and  arose  late. 

Guelph  lay  somewhere  in  the  interior  of  Can- 
ada, and  we  did  not  expect  to  get  there  until  1 
o'clock. 

As  it  turned  out,  the  train  was  late ;  we  had  to 
dress  hurriedly  in  the  smoking  room,  pack  our 
citizen  clothes  in  our  grips  and  leave  the  train 
to  go  direct  to  the  ball  grounds  without  time  for 
lunch. 

It  was  a  tired,  dusty-eyed,  peevish  crowd  of 
ball  players  that  climbed  into  a  waiting  bus  at  the 
little  station. 

We  had  never  heard  of  Guelph ;  we  did  not  care 
anything  about  Rube  baseball  teams.  Baseball 
was  not  play  to  us;  it  was  the  hardest  kind  of 
work,  and  of  all  things  an  exhibition  game  was  an 
abomination. 

The  Guelph  players,  strapping  lads,  met  us  with 
every  mark  of  respect  and  courtesy  and  escorted 
us  to  the  field  with  a  brass  band  that  was  loud  in 
welcome,  if  not  harmonious  in  tune. 

Some  500  men  and  boys  trotted  curiously  along 
with  us,  for  all  the  world  as  if  the  bus  were  a 
circus  parade  cage  filled  with  striped  tigers. 
What  a  rustic,  motley  crowd  massed  about  in  and 
on  that  ball  ground.  There  must  have  been  10,000. 

The  audience  was  strange  to  us.  The  Indians, 
half-breeds,  French-Canadians ;  the  huge,  hulking, 


162       THE   BEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

bearded  fanners  or  traders,  or  trappers,  what- 
ever they  were,  were  new  to  our  baseball  experi- 
ence. 

The  players  themselves,  however,  earned  the 
largest  share  of  our  attention.  By  the  time  they 
had  practiced  a  few  moments  we  looked  at  Merritt 
and  Merritt  looked  at  us. 

These  long,  powerful,  big-handed  lads  evidently 
did  not  know  the  difference  between  lacrosse  and 
baseball ;  but  they  were  quick  as  cats  on  their  feet, 
and  they  scooped  up  the  ball  in  a  way  wonderful 
to  see.  And  throw! — it  made  a  professional's 
heart  swell  just  to  see  them  line  the  ball  across 
the  diamond. 

"Lord!  what  whips  these  lads  have!"  ex- 
claimed Merritt.  "Hope  we're  not  up  against  it. 
If  this  team  should  beat  us  we  wouldn't  draw  a 
handful  at  Toronto.  We  can't  afford  to  be  beaten. 
Jump  around  and  cinch  the  game  quick.  If  we 
get  in  a  bad  place,  I  '11  sneak  in  the  '  rabbit. '  ' 

The  "rabbit"  was  a  baseball  similar  in  appear- 
ance to  the  ordinary  league  ball ;  under  its  horse- 
hide  cover,  however,  it  was  remarkably  different. 

An  ingenious  fan,  a  friend  of  Merritt,  had  re- 
moved the  covers  from  a  number  of  league  balls 
and  sewed  them  on  rubber  balls  of  his  own  mak- 
ing. They  could  not  be  distinguished  from  the 
regular  article,  not  even  by  an  experienced  pro- 
fessional— until  they  were  hit.  Then!  The  fact 
that  after  every  bounce  one  of  these  rubber  balls 


THE   WINNINGS  BALL  163 

bounded  swifter  and  higher  had  given  it  the  name 
of  the  "rabbit." 

Many  a  game  had  the  "rabbit"  won  for  ns  at 
critical  stages.  Of  conrse  it  was  against  the  rales 
of  the  league,  and  of  course  every  player  in  the 
league  knew  about  it ;  still,  when  it  was  judiciously 
and  cleverly  brought  into  a  close  game,  the  "rab- 
bit" would  be  in  play,  and  very  probably  over 
the  fence,  before  the  opposing  captain  could  learn 
of  it,  let  alone  appeal  to  the  umpire. 

"Fellars,  look  at  that  guy  who's  goin'  to  pitch," 
suddenly  spoke  up  one  of  the  team. 

Many  as  were  the  country  players  whom  we 
seasoned  and  traveled  professionals  had  run 
across,  this  twirler  outclassed  them  for  remark- 
able appearance.  Moreover,  what  put  an  entirely 
different  tinge  to  our  momentary  humor  was  the 
discovery  that  he  was  as  wild  as  a  March  hare 
and  could  throw  a  ball  so  fast  that  it  resembled  a 
pea  shot  from  a  boy's  air  gun. 

Deerfoot  led  our  batting  list,  and  after  the  first 
pitched  ball,  which  he  did  not  see,  and  the  second, 
which  ticked  his  shirt  as  it  shot  past,  he  turned  to 
us  with  an  expression  that  made  us  groan  in- 
wardly. 

When  Deerfoot  looked  that  way  it  meant  the 
pitcher  was  dangerous.  Deerfoot  made  no  effort 
to  swing  at  the  next  ball,  and  was  promptly  called 
out  on  strikes. 

I  was  second  at  bat,  and  went  np  with  some  re- 


164       THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

luctance.  I  happened  to  be  leading  the  leagne  in 
both  long  distance  and  safe  hitting,  and  I  doted 
on  speed.  But  having  stopped  many  mean  in- 
shoots  with  various  parts  of  my  anatomy,  I  was 
rather  squeamish  about  facing  backwoods  yaps 
who  had  no  control. 

When  I  had  watched  a  couple  of  his  pitches, 
which  the  umpire  called  strikes,  I  gave  him  credit 
for  as  much  speed  as  Eusie.  These  balls  were  as 
straight  as  a  string,  singularly  without  curve, 
jump,  or  variation  of  any  kind.  I  lined  the  next 
one  so  hard  at  the  shortstop  that  it  cracked  like 
a  pistol  as  it  struck  his  hands  and  whirled  him 
half  off  his  feet.  Still  he  hung  to  the  ball  and 
gave  opportunity  for  the  first  crash  of  applause. 

"Boys,  he's  a  trifle  wild/'  I  said  to  my  team- 
mates, "but  he  has  the  most  beautiful  ball  to  hit 
you  ever  saw.  I  don't  believe  he  uses  a  curve, 
and  when  we  once  time  that  speed  we'll  kill  it." 

Next  inning,  after  old  man  Hathaway  had 
baffled  the  Canadians  with  his  wide,  tantalizing 
curves,  my  predictions  began  to  be  verified.  Snead 
rapped  one  high  and  far  to  deep  right  field.  To 
our  infinite  surprise,  however,  the  right  fielder 
ran  with  fleetness  that  made  our  own  Deerfoot 
seem  slow,  and  he  got  under  the  ball  and  caught 
it. 

Doran  sent  a  sizzling  grasscutter  down  toward 
left.  The  lanky  third  baseman  darted  over,  dived 
down,  and,  coming  up  with  the  ball,  exhibited  the 


THE   WINNING  BALI]  165 

power  of  a  throwing  arm  that  made  us  all  green 
with  envy. 

Then,  when  the  catcher  chased  a  foul  fly  some- 
where back  in  the  crowd  and  caught  it,  we  began 
to  take  notice. 

"Lucky  stabs!"  said  Merritt  cheerfully.  "They 
can't  keep  that  up.  "We'll  drive  him  to  the  woods 
next  time/* 

But  they  did  keep  it  up ;  moreover,  they  became 
more  brilliant  as  the  game  progressed.  What 
with  Hathaway  9s  heady  pitching  we  soon' disposed 
of  them  when  at  the  bat;  our  turns,  however, 
owing  to  the  wonderful  fielding  of  these  back- 
woodsmen, were  also  fruitless. 

Merritt,  with  his  mind  ever  on  the  slice  of  gate 
money  coming  if  we  won,  began  to  fidget  and  fume 
and  find  fault. 

"You're  a  swell  lot  of  champions,  now,  ain't 
you?"  he  observed  between  innings. 

All  baseball  players  like  to  bat,  and  nothing 
pleases  them  so  much  as  base  hits;  on  the  other 
hand,  nothing  is  quite  so  painful  as  to  send  out 
hard  liners  only  to  see  them  caught.  And  it 
seemed  as  if  every  man  on  our  team  connected 
with  that  lanky  twirler's  fast  high  ball  and  hit 
with  the  force  that  made  the  bat  spring  only  to 
have  one  of  these  rubes  get  his  big  hands  upon 
it. 

Considering  that  we  were  in  no  angelic  frame 
of  mind  before  the  game  started,  and  in  view  of 


166       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

Merritt  >s  persistently  increasing  ill  humor,  this 
failure  of  ours  to  hit  a  ball  safely  gradually 
worked  us  into  a  kind  of  frenzy.  From  indiffer- 
ence we  passed  to  determination,  and  from  that 
to  sheer  passionate  purpose. 

Luck  appeared  to  be  turning  in  the  sixth  inning. 
With  one  out,  Lake  hit  a  beauty  to  right.  Dor  an 
beat  an  infield  grounder  and  reached  first.  Hath- 
away struck  out. 

With  Browning  up  and  me  next,  the  situation 
looked  rather  precarious  for  the  Canadians. 

' 'Say,  Deerfoot,"  whispered  Merritt,  "dump 
one  down  the  third-base  line.  He's  playin'  deep. 
It's  a  pipe.  Then  the  bases  will  be  full  an*  Red- 
dy'll  clean  up." 

In  a  stage  like  that  Browning  was  a  man  abso- 
lutely to  depend  upon.  He  placed  a  slow  bunt 
in  the  grass  toward  third  and  sprinted  for  first. 
The  third  baseman  fielded  the  ball,  but,  being 
confused,  did  not  know  where  to  throw  it. 

"Stick  it  in  your  basket,"  yelled  Merritt,  in  a 
delight  that  showed  how  hard  he  was  pulling  for 
the  gate  money,  and  his  beaming  smile  as  he 
turned  to  me  was  inspiring.  "Now,  Reddy,  it's 
up  to  you!  I'm  not  worrying  about  what's  hap- 
pened so  far.  I  know,  with  you  at  bat  in  a  pinch, 
it's  all  off!" 

Merritt 's  compliment  was  pleasing,  but  it  did 
not  augment  my  purpose,  for  that  already  had 
reached  the  highest  mark.  Love  of  hitting,  if  no 


THE   WINNING  BALL  167 

other  thing,  gave  me  the  thrilling  fire  to  arise  to 
the  opportunity.  Selecting  my  light  bat,  I  went 
up  and  faced  the  rustic  twirler  and  softly  said 
things  to  him. 

He  delivered  the  ball,  and  I  could  have  yelled 
aloud,  so  fast,  so  straight,  so  true  it  sped  toward 
me.  Then  I  hit  it  harder  than  I  had  ever  hit  a 
ball  in  my  life.  The  bat  sprung,  as  if  it  were 
whalebone.  And  the  ball  took  a  bullet  course  be- 
tween center  and  left.  So  beautiful  a  hit  was  it 
that  I  watched  as  I  ran. 

Out  of  the  tail  of  my  eye  I  saw  the  center 
fielder  running.  When  I  rounded  first  base  I  got 
a  good  look  at  this  fielder,  and  though  I  had  seen 
the  greatest  outfielders  the  game  ever  produced, 
I  never  saw  one  that  covered  ground  so  swiftly 
as  he. 

On  the  ball  soared,  and  began  to  drop;  on  the 
fielder  sped,  and  began  to  disappear  over  a  little 
hill  back  of  his  position.  Then  he  reached  up  witH 
a  long  arm  and  marvelously  caught  the  ball  in 
one  hand.  He  went  out  of  sight  as  I  touched  sec- 
ond base,  and  the  heterogeneous  crowd  knew 
about  a  great  play  to  make  more  noise  than  a  herd 
of  charging  buffalo. 

In  the  next  half  inning  our  opponents,  by  clean 
drives,  scored  two  runs  and  we  in  our  turn  again 
went  out  ignominiously.  When  the  first  of  the 
eighth  came  we  were  desperate  and  clamored  for 
the  "rabbit." 


168       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

"I've  sneaked  it  in,"  said  Merritt,  with  a  low 
voice.  "Got  it  to  the  umpire  on  the  last  passed 
ball.  See,  the  pitcher's  got  it  now.  Boys,  it's  all 
off  but  the  fireworks!  Now,  break  loose!" 

A  peculiarity  about  the  "rabbit"  was  the  fact 
that  though  it  felt  as  light  as  the  regulation  league 
ball  it  could  not  be  thrown  with  the  same  speed 
and  to  curve  it  was  an  impossibility. 

Bane  hit  the  first  delivery  from  our  hoosier 
stumbling  block.  The  ball  struck  the  ground  and 
began  to  bound  toward  short.  With  every  bound 
it  went  swifter,  longer  and  higher,  and  it  bounced 
clear  over  the  shortstop's  head.  Lake  chopped 
one  in  front  of  the  plate,  and  it  rebounded  from 
the  ground  straight  up  so  high  that  both  runners 
were  safe  before  it  came  down. 

Doran  hit  to  the  pitcher.  The  ball  caromed 
his  leg,  scooted  fiendishly  at  the  second  baseman, 
and  tried  to  run  up  all  over  him  like  a  tame 
squirrel.  Bases  full! 

Hathaway  got  a  safe  fly  over  the  infield  and  two 
runs  tallied.  The  pitcher,  in  spite  of  the  help  of 
the  umpire,  could  not  locate  the  plate  for  Bal- 
knap,  and  gave  him  a  base  on  balls.  Bases  full 
again ! 

Deerfoot  slammed  a  hot  liner  straight  at  the 
second  baseman,  which,  striking  squarely  in  his 
hands,  recoiled  as  sharply  as  if  it  had  struck  a 
wall.  Doran  scored,  and  still  the  bases  were  filled. 

The  laboring  pitcher  began  to  get  rattled;  he 


THE   WINNING  BALL  169 

could  not  find  his  usual  speed;  he  knew  it,  but 
evidently  could  not  account  for  it. 

When  I  came  to  bat,  indications  were  not  want- 
ing that  the  Canadian  team  would  soon  be  up  in 
the  air.  The  long  pitcher  delivered  the  "  rab- 
bit, "  and  got  it  low  down  by  my  knees,  which 
was  an  unfortunate  thing  for  him.  I  swung  on 
that  one,  and  trotted  round  the  bases  behind  the 
runners  while  the  center  and  left  fielders  chased 
the  ball. 

Gillinger  weighed  nearly  two  hundred  pounds, 
and  he  got  all  his  weight  under  the  " rabbit."  It 
went  so  high  that  we  could  scarcely  see  it.  All 
the  infielders  rushed  in,  and  after  staggering 
around,  with  heads  bent  back,  one  of  them,  the 
shortstop,  managed  to  get  under  it.  The  "rab- 
bit" bounded  forty  feet  out  of  his  hands! 

When  Snead's  grounder  nearly  tore  the  third 
baseman's  leg  off;  when  Bane's  hit  proved  as 
elusive  as  a  flitting  shadow;  when  Lake's  liner 
knocked  the  pitcher  flat,  and  Doran's  fly  leaped 
high  out  of  the  center  fielder's  glove — then  those 
earnest,  simple,  country  ballplayers  realized 
something  was  wrong.  But  they  imagined  it  was 
in  themselves,  and  after  a  short  spell  of  rattles, 
they  steadied  up  and  tried  harder  than  ever.  The 
motions  they  went  through  trying  to  stop  that 
jumping  jackrabbit  of  a  ball  were  ludicrous  in 
the  extreme. 

Finally,  through  a  foul,  a  short  fly,  and  a  scratch 


170       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

hit  to  first,  they  retired  the  side  and  we  went  into 
the  field  with  the  score  14  to  2  in  onr  favor. 

But  Merritt  had  not  found  it  possible  to  get  the 
"rabbit"  ont  of  play! 

We  spent  a  fatefully  anxious  few  moments 
squabbling  with  the  umpire  and  captain  over  the 
"rabbit."  At  the  idea  of  letting  those  herculean 
railsplitters  have  a  chance  to  hit  the  rubber  ball 
we  felt  our  blood  run  cold. 

"But  this  ball  has  a  rip  in  it,"  blustered  Gil- 
linger.  He  lied  atrociously.  A  microscope  could 
not  have  discovered  as  much  as  a  scratch  in  that 
smooth  leather. 

"Sure  it  has,"  supplemented  Merritt,  in  the 
suave  tones  of  a  stage  villain.  "We're  used  to 
playin'  with  good  balls." 

"Why  did  you  ring  this  one  in  on  us?"  asked 
the  captain.  "We  never  threw  out  this  ball.  We 
want  a  chance  to  hit  it." 

That  was  just  the  one  thing  we  did  not  want 
them  to  have.  But  fate  played  against  us. 

* '  Get  up  on  your  toes,  now  an r  dust, ' '  said  Mer- 
ritt. ' '  Take  your  medicine,  you  lazy  sit-in-f ront- 
of -the-hotel  stiffs !  Think  of  pay  day ! " 

Not  improbably  we  all  entertained  the  identical 
thought  that  old  man  Hathaway  was  the  last 
pitcher  under  the  sun  calculated  to  be  effective 
with  the  "rabbit."  He  never  relied  on  speed; 
in  fact,  Merritt  often  scornfully  accused  him  of 
toeing  unable  to  break  a  pane  of  glass;  he  used 


THE   WINNING   BALL  171 

principally  what  we  called  floaters  and  a  change 
of  pace.  Both  styles  were  absolutely  impractical 
with  the  "rabbit." 

"It's  comin'  to  us,  all  right,  all  right!"  yelled 
Deerfoot  to  me,  across  the  intervening  grass.  I 
was  of  the  opinion  that  it  did  not  take  any  genins 
to  make  Deerfoot  Js  ominous  prophecy. 

Old  man  Hathaway  gazed  at  Merritt  on  the 
bench  as  if  he  wished  the  manager  could  hear 
what  he  was  calling  him  and  then  at  his  fellow- 
players  as  if  both  to  warn  and  beseech  them. 
Then  he  pitched  the  "rabbit." 

Crack! 

The  big  lumbering  Canadian  rapped  the  ball 
at  Crab  Bane.  I  did  not  see  it,  because  it  went 
so  fast,  but  I  gathered  from  Crab's  actions  that 
it  must  have  been  hit  in  his  direction.  At  any 
rate,  one  of  his  legs  flopped  out  sidewise  as  if 
it  had  been  suddenly  jerked,  and  he  fell  in  a  heap. 
The  ball,  a  veritable  "rabbit"  in  its  wild  jumps, 
headed  on  for  Deerfoot,  who  contrived  to  stop  it 
with  his  knees. 

The  next  batter  resembled  the  first  one,  and 
the  hit  likewise,  only  it  leaped  wickedly  at  Doran 
and  went  through  his  hands  as  if  they  had  been 
paper.  The  third  man  batted  up  a  very  high  fly 
to  Gillinger.  He  clutched  at  it  with  his  huge 
shovel  hands,  but  he  could  not  hold  it.  The  way 
he  pounced  upon  the  ball,  dug  it  out  of  the  grass, 
and  hurled  it  at  Hathaway,  showed  his  anger. 


172       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

Obviously  Hathaway  had  to  stop  the  throw, 
for  he  could  not  get  out  of  the  road,  and  he  spoke 
to  his  captain  in  what  I  knew  were  no  compli- 
mentary terms. 

Thns  began  retribution.  Those  husky  lads  con- 
tinued to  hammer  the  "  rabbit "  at  the  infielders, 
and  as  it  bounced  harder  at  every  bounce  so  they 
batted  harder  at  every  bat. 

Another  singular  feature  about  the  "rabbit" 
was  the  seeming  impossibility  for  professionals 
to  hold  it.  Their  familiarity  with  it,  their  under- 
standing of  its  vagaries  and  inconsistencies,  their 
mortal  dread  made  fielding  it  a  much  more  diffi- 
cult thing  than  for  their  opponents. 

By  way  of  variety,  the  lambasting  Canadians 
commenced  to  lambast  a  few  over  the  hills  and 
far  away,  which  chased  Deerfoot  and  me  until 
our  tongues  lolled  out. 

Every  time  a  run  crossed  the  plate  the  motley 
crowd  howled,  roared,  danced  and  threw  up  their 
hats.  The  members  of  the  batting  team  pranced 
up  and  down  the  side  lines,  giving  a  splendid  imi- 
tation of  cannibals  celebrating  the  occasion  of  a 
feast. 

Once  Snead  stooped  down  to  trap  the  "rab- 
bit," and  it  slipped  through  his  legs,  for  which 
his  comrades  jeered  him  unmercifully.  Then  a 
brawny  batter  sent  up  a  tremendously  high  fly 
between  short  and  third. 

"You  take  it!"  yelled  Gillinger  to  Bane. 


THE   WINNING   BALL  173 

"Yon  take  it!"  replied  the  Crab,  and  actually 
walked  backward.  That  ball  went  a  mile  high. 
The  sky  was  hazy,  gray,  the  most  perplexing  in 
which  to  judge  a  fly  ball.  An  ordinary  fly  gave 
trouble  enough  in  the  gauging. 

Gillinger  wandered  around  under  the  ball  for 
what  seemed  an  age.  It  dropped  as  swiftly  as  a 
rocket  shoots  upward.  Gillinger  went  forward 
in  a  circle,  then  sidestepped,  and  threw  up  his 
broad  hands.  He  misjudged  the  ball,  and  it  hit 
him  fairly  on  the  head  and  bounced  almost  to 
where  Doran  stood  at  second. 

Our  big  captain  wilted.  Time  was  called.  But 
Gillinger,  when  he  came  to,  refused  to  leave  the 
game  and  went  back  to  third  with  a  lump  on  his 
head  as  large  as  a  goose  egg. 

Every  one  of  his  teammates  was  sorry,  yet 
every  one  howled  in  glee.  To  be  hit  on  the  head 
was  the  unpardonable  sin  for  a  professional. 

Old  man  Hathaway  gradually  lost  what  little 
speed  he  had,  and  with  it  his  nerve.  Every  time 
he  pitched  the  "  rabbit "  he  dodged.  That  was 
about  the  funniest  and  strangest  thing  ever  seen 
on  a  ball  field.  Yet  it  had  an  element  of  tragedy. 

Hathaway 's  expert  contortions  saved  his  head 
and  body  on  divers  occasions,  but  presently  a  low 
bounder  glanced  off  the  grass  and  manifested  an 
affinity  for  his  leg. 

"We  all  knew  from  the  crack  and  the  way  the 
pitcher  went  down  that  the  "rabbit"  had  put  him 


174       THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

ont  of  the  game.  The  -umpire  called  time,  and 
Merritt  came  running  on  the  diamond. 

"Hard  luck,  old  man,"  said  the  manager. 
"That'll  make  a  green  and  yellow  spot  all  right. 
Boys,  we're  still  two  runs  to  the  good.  There's 
one  out,  an'  we  can  win  yet.  Deer  foot,  you're  as 
badly  crippled  as  Hathaway.  The  bench  for 
yours.  Hooker  will  go  to  center,  an'  I'll  pitch." 

Merritt 's  idea  did  not  strike  us  as  a  bad  one. 
He  could  pitch,  and  he  always  kept  his  arm  in 
prime  condition.  "We  welcomed  him  into  the  fray 
for  two  reasons — because  he  might  win  the  game, 
and  because  he  might  be  overtaken  by  the  base- 
ball Nemesis. 

While  Merritt  was  putting  on  Hathaway 's  base- 
ball shoes,  some  of  us  endeavored  to  get  the  "rab- 
bit" away  from  the  umpire,  but  he  was  too  wise. 

Merritt  received  the  innocent-looking  ball  with 
a  look  of  mingled  disgust  and  fear,  and  he  sum- 
marily ordered  us  to  our  positions. 

Not  far  had  we  gone,  however,  when  we  were 
electrified  by  the  umpire's  sharp  words: 

"Naw!  Naw,  you  don't.  I  saw  you  change  the 
ball  I  gave  you  fer  one  in  your  pocket!  Naw! 
You  don't  come  enny  of  your  American  dodges 
on  us!  Gimmee  thet  ball,  an'  you  use  the  other, 
or  I'll  stop  the  game." 

Wherewith  the  shrewd  umpire  took  the  ball  from 
Merritt 's  hand  and  fished  the  "rabbit"  from  his 
pocket.  Our  thwarted  manager  stuttered  his 


THE   WINNING  BALL  175 

wrath.  "Y-you  be-be-wh-whiskered  y-yap!  I'll 
g-g-give " 

What  dire  threat  he  had  in  mind  never  ma- 
terialized, for  he  became  speechless.  He  glowered 
upon  the  cool  little  umpire,  and  then  turned 
grandly  toward  the  plate. 

It  may  have  been  imagination,  yet  I  made  sure 
Merritt  seemed  to  shrink  and  grow  smaller  before 
he  pitched  a  ball.  For  one  thing  the  plate  was 
uphill  from  the  pitcher's  box,  and  then  the  fellow 
standing  there  loomed  up  like  a  hill  and  swung 
a  bat  that  would  have  served  as  a  wagon  tongue. 
No  wonder  Merritt  evinced  nervousness.  Pres- 
ently he  whirled  and  delivered  the  ball. 

Bing! 

A  dark  streak  and  a  white  puff  of  dust  over 
second  base  showed  how  safe  that  hit  was.  By 
dint  of  manful  body  work,  Hooker  contrived  to 
stop  the  " rabbit"  in  mid-center.  Another  run 
scored.  Human  nature  was  proof  against  this 
temptation,  and  Merritt 's  players  tendered  him 
manifold  congratulations  and  dissertations. 

" Grand,  you  old  skinflint,  grand!" 

"  There  was  a  two-dollar  bill  stiekin'  on  thet 
hit.  Why  didn't  you  stop  it?" 

"Say,  Merritt,  what  little  brains  you've  got  will 
presently  be  ridin'  on  the  'rabbit.'  ' 

"You  will  chase  up  these  exhibition  games!" 

' '  Take  your  medicine  now.    Ha !  Ha !  Ha ! ' ' 

After  these  merciless  taunts,  and  particularly 


176       THE   KEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

after  the  next  slashing  hit  that  tied  the  score,  Mer- 
ritt  looked  appreciably  smaller  and  humbler. 

He  threw  up  another  ball,  and  actually  shied  as 
it  neared  the  plate. 

The  giant  who  was  waiting  to  slug  it  evidently 
thought  better  of  his  eagerness  as  far  as  that  pitch 
was  concerned,  for  he  let  it  go  by. 

Merritt  got  the  next  ball  higher.  "With  a  mighty 
swing,  the  batsman  hit  a  terrific  liner  right  at  the 
pitcher. 

Quick  as  lightning,  Merritt  wheeled,  and  the 
ball  struck  him  with  the  sound  of  two  boards 
brought  heavily  together  with  a  smack. 

Merritt  did  not  fall;  he  melted  to  the  ground 
and  writhed  while  the  runners  scored  with  more 
tallies  than  they  needed  to  win. 

What  did  we  care?  Justice  had  been  done  us, 
and  we  were  unutterably  happy.  Crabe  Bane 
stood  on  bis  head ;  Gillinger  began  a  war  dance ; 
old  man  Hathaway  hobbled  out  to  the  side  lines 
and  whooped  like  an  Indian;  Snead  rolled  over 
and  over  in  the  grass.  All  of  us  broke  out  into 
typical  expressions  of  baseball  frenzy,  and  indi- 
vidual ones  illustrating  our  particular  moods. 

Merritt  got  up  and  made  a  dive  for  the  ball. 
With  face  positively  flaming  he  flung  it  far  beyond 
the  merry  crowd,  over  into  a  swamp.  Then  he 
limped  for  the  bench.  Which  throw  ended  the 
most  memorable  game  ever  recorded  to  the  credit 
of  the  "rabbit." 


FALSE  COLORS 

"FATE  has  decreed  more  bad  luck  for  Salisbury 
in  Saturday's  game  with  Bellville.  It  has  leaked 
out  that  our  rivals  will  come  over  strengthened 
by  a  'ringer,'  no  less  than  Yale's  star  pitcher, 
Wayne.  We  saw  him  shut  Princeton  out  in  June, 
in  the  last  game  of  the  college  year,  and  we  are 
not  optimistic  in  our  predictions  as  to  what  Salis- 
bury can  do  with  him.  This  appears  a  rather  unfair 
procedure  for  Bellville  to  resort  to.  Why 
couldn't  they  come  over  with  their  regular  team? 
They  have  won  a  game,  and  so  have  we;  both 
games  were  close  and  brilliant ;  the  deciding  game 
has  roused  unusual  interest.  We  are  inclined  to 
resent  Bellville 's  methods  as  unsportsmanlike. 
All  our  players  can  do  is  to  go  into  this  game  on 
Saturday  and  try  the  harder  to  win." 

Wayne  laid  down  the  Salisbury  Gazette,  with  a 
little  laugh  of  amusement,  yet  feeling  a  vague, 
disquieting  sense  of  something  akin  to  regret. 

"Pretty  decent  of  that  chap  not  to  roast  me," 
he  soliloquized. 

177 


178       THE   BEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

Somewhere  he  had  heard  that  Salisbury  main- 
tained an  unsalaried  team.  It  was  notorious 
among  college  athletes  that  the  Bellville  Club  paid 
for  the  services  of  distinguished  players.  And 
this  in  itself  rather  inclined  Wayne  to  sympathize 
with  Salisbury.  He  knew  something  of  the  strug- 
gles of  a  strictly  amateur  club  to  cope  with  its 
semi-professional  rivals. 

As  he  was  sitting  there,  idly  tipped  back  in  a 
comfortable  chair,  dreaming  over  some  of  the 
baseball  disasters  he  had  survived  before  his  col- 
lege career,  he  saw  a  young  man  enter  the  lobby 
of  the  hotel,  speak  to  the  clerk,  and  then  turn  and 
come  directly  toward  the  window  where  Wayne 
was  sitting. 

"Are  you  Mr.  Wayne,  the  Yale  pitcher  1" 
he  asked  eagerly.  He  was  a  fair-haired, 
clean-cut  young  fellow,  and  his  voice  rang  pleas- 
antly. 

"Guilty/'  replied  Wayne. 

"My  name's  Huling.  I'm  captain  of  the  Salis- 
bury nine.  Just  learned  you  were  in  town  and 
are  going  to  pitch  against  us  tomorrow.  Won't 
you  walk  out  into  the  grounds  with  me  now? 
You  might  want  to  warm  up  a  little." 

"Thank  you,  yes,  I  will.  Guess  I  won't  need 
my  suit.  I'll  just  limber  up,  and  give  my  arm  a 
good  rub." 

It  struck  Wayne  before  they  had  walked  far 
that  Huling  was  an  amiable  and  likable  chap.  As 


FALSE   COLORS  179 

the  captain  of  the  Salisbury  nine,  he  certainly 
had  no  reason  to  be  agreeable  to  the  Morristown 
"ringer,"  even  thongh  Wayne  did  happen  to  be 
a  famous  Yale  pitcher. 

The  field  was  an  oval,  green  as  an  emerald,  level 
as  a  billiard  table,  and  had  no  fences  or  stands 
to  obstruct  the  open  view  of  the  surrounding 
wooded  country.  On  each  side  of  the  diamond 
were  rows  of  wooden  benches,  and  at  one  end  of 
the  field  stood  a  little  clubhouse. 

Wayne  took  off  his  coat,  and  tossed  a  ball  for 
a  while  to  an  ambitious  youngster,  and  then  went 
into  the  clubhouse,  where  Huling  introduced  him 
to  several  of  his  players.  After  a  good  rubdown, 
Wayne  thanked  Huling  for  his  courtesy,  and 
started  out,  intending  to  go  back  to  town. 

1  'Why  not  stay  to  see  us  practice?"  asked  the 
captain.  "We're  not  afraid  you'll  size  up  our 
weaknesses.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  don't  look 
forward  to  any  hitting  stunts  tomorrow,  eh, 
Burns?  Burns,  here,  is  our  leading  hitter,  and 
he's  been  unusually  noncommittal  since  he  heard 
who  was  going  to  pitch  for  Bellville." 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  give  a  whole  lot  for  my  pros- 
pects of  a  home  run  tomorrow,"  said  Burns,  with 
a  laugh. 

Wayne  went  outside,  and  found  a  seat  in  the 
shade.  A  number  of  urchins  had  trooped  upon 
the  green  field,  and  carriages  and  motors  were  al- 
ready in  evidence.  By  the  time  the  players  cam* 


180       THE   KEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

out  of  the  dressing  room,  ready  for  practice,  there 
was  quite  a  little  crowd  in  attendance. 

Despite  "Wayne's  hesitation,  Huling  insisted 
npon  introducing  him  to  friends,  and  finally  hauled 
him  up  to  a  hig  touring  car  full  of  girls.  Wayne, 
being  a  Yale  pitcher,  had  seen  several  thousand 
pretty  girls,  but  the  group  in  that  automobile 
fairly  dazzled  him.  And  the  last  one  to  whom 
Huling  presented  him — with  the  words:  "Dor- 
othy, this  is  Mr.  Wayne,  the  Yale  pitcher,  who  is 
to  play  with  Bellville  tomorrow;  Mr.  Wayne,  my 
sister " — was  the  girl  he  had  known  he  would 
meet  some  day. 

"Climb  up,  Mr.  Wayne.  We  can  make  room," 
invited  Miss  Huling. 

Wayne  thought  the  awkwardness  with  which  he 
found  a  seat  beside  her  was  unbecoming  to  a  Yale 
senior.  But,  considering  she  was  the  girl  he  had 
been  expecting  to  discover  for  years,  his  clumsi- 
ness bespoke  the  importance  of  the  event.  The 
merry  laughter  of  the  girls  rang  in  his  ears. 
Presently,  a  voice  detached  itself  from  the  others, 
and  came  floating  softly  to  him. 

"Mr.  Wayne,  so  you're  going  to  wrest  our 
laurels  from  us?"  asked  Miss  Huling. 

"I  don't  know — I'm  not  infallible — I've  been 
beaten." 

"When!  Not  this  season?"  she  inquired 
quickly,  betraying  ;a  knowledge  of  his  record 
that  surprised  and  pleased  him.  "Mr.  Wayne, 


FALSE   COLORS  181 

I  was  at  the  Polo  Grounds  on  June  fifteenth." 

Her  white  hand  lightly  touched  the  Princeton 
pin  at  her  neck.  Wayne  roused  suddenly  out  of 
his  trance.  The  girl  was  a  Princeton  girl !  The 
gleam  of  her  golden  hair,  the  flash  of  her  blue 
eyes,  became  clear  in  sight. 

"I'm  very  pleased  to  hear  it,"  he  replied. 

"It  was  a  great  game,  Mr.  Wayne,  and  you  may 
well  be  proud  of  your  part  in  winning  it.  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  if  you  treated  the  Salis- 
bury team  to  the  same  coat  of  whitewash.  We 
girls  are  up  in  arms.  Our  boys  stood  a  fair  chance 
to  win  this  game,  but  now  there 's  a  doubt.  By 
the  way,  are  you  acquainted  in  Bellville?" 

"No.  I  met  Eeed,  the  Bellville  captain,  in  New 
York  this  week.  He  had  already  gotten  an  extra 
pitcher — another  ringer — for  this  game,  but  he 
said  he  preferred  me,  if  it  could  be  arranged." 

While  conversing,  Wayne  made  note  of  the  fact 
that  the  other  girls  studiously  left  him  to  Miss 
Huling.  If  the  avoidance  had  not  been  so  marked, 
he  would  never  have  thought  of  it. 

"Mr.  Wayne,  if  your  word  is  not  involved — will 
you  change  your  mind  and  pitch  tomorrow's  game 
for  us  instead  of  Bellville?" 

Quite  amazed,  Wayne  turned  squarely  to  look 
at  Miss  Huling.  Instead  of  disarming  his  quick 
suspicion,  her  cool,  sweet  voice,  and  brave,  blue 
eyes  confirmed  it.  The  charms  of  the  captain's 
sister  were  to  be  used  to  win  him  away  from  the 


182       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

Bellville  nine.  He  knew  the  trick;  it  had  been 
played  upon  him  before. 

Bnt  never  had  any  other  such  occasion  given 
him  a  feeling  of  regret.  This  case  was  different. 
She  was  the  girl.  And  she  meant  to  flirt  with  him, 
to  nse  her  eyes  for  all  they  were  worth  to  en- 
compass the  Waterloo  of  the  rival  team. 

No,  he  had  made  a  mistake,  after  all — she  was 
not  the  real  girl.  Suddenly  conscious  of  a  little 
shock  of  pain,  he  dismissed  that  dream  girl  from 
his  mind,  and  determined  to  meet  Miss  Hilling 
half  way  in  her  game.  He  conld  not  flirt  as  well 
as  he  conld  pitch ;  still,  he  was  no  novice. 

"Well,  Miss  Hilling,  my  word  certainly  is  not 
involved.  Bnt  as  to  pitching  for  Salisbury — that 
depends. " 

"Upon  what?" 

"Upon  what  there  is  In  It." 

"Mr.  Wayne,  you  mean — money?  Oh,  I  know. 
My  brother  Rex  told  me  how  you  college  men  are 
paid  big  sums.  Our  association  will  not  give  a 
dollar,  and,  besides,  my  brother  knows  nothing  of 
this.  But  we  girls  are  heart  and  soul  on  winning 
this  game.  We'll " 

"Miss  Huling,  I  didn't  mean  remuneration  in 
sordid  cash,"  interrupted  Wayne,  in  a  tone  that 
heightened  the  color  in  her  cheeks. 

Wayne  eyed  her  keenly  with  mingled  emotions. 
Was  that  rose-leaf  flush  in  her  cheeks  natural? 
Some  girls  could  blush  at  will.  Were  the  wistful 


FALSE   COLORS  183 

eyes,  the  earnest  lips,  only  shamming?  It  cost 
him  some  bitterness  to  decide  that  they  were. 
Her  beauty  fascinated,  while  it  hardened  him. 
Eternally,  the  beauty  of  women  meant  the  undo- 
ing of  men,  whether  they  played  the  simple,  in- 
consequential game  of  baseball,  or  the  great, 
absorbing,  mutable  game  of  life. 

The  shame  of  the  situation  for  him  was  increas- 
ingly annoying,  inasmuch  as  this  lovely  girl 
should  stoop  to  flirtation  with  a  stranger,  and  the 
same  time  draw  him,  allure  him,  despite  the  ap- 
parent insincerity. 

"Miss  Huling,  I'll  pitch  your  game  for  two 
things/'  he  continued. 

"Name  them." 

"Wear  Yale  blue  in  place  of  that  orange-and- 
black  Princeton  pin." 

"I  will."  She  said  it  with  a  shyness,  a  look  in 
her  eyes  that  made  Wayne  wince.  What  a  per- 
fect little  actress !  But  there  seemed  just  a  chance 
that  this  was  not  deceit.  For  an  instant  he 
wavered,  held  back  by  subtle,  finer  intuition ;  then 
he  beat  down  the  mounting  influence  of  truth  in 
those  dark-blue  eyes,  and  spoke  deliberately: 

"The  other  thing  is — if  I  win  the  game — a 
kiss." 

Dorothy  Huling 's  face  flamed  scarlet.  But  this 
did  not  affect  Wayne  so  deeply,  though  it  showed 
him  his  mistake,  as  the  darkening  shadow  of  disap- 
pointment in  her  eyes.  If  she  had  been  a  flirt, 


184       THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

she  would  have  been  prepared  for  rudeness.  He 
began  casting  about  in  his  mind  for  some  apology, 
some  mitigation  of  his  offense;  but  as  he  was 
about  to  speak,  the  sudden  fading  of  her  color, 
leaving  her  pale,  and  the  look  in  her  proud,  dark 
eyes  disconcerted  him  out  of  utterance. 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Wayne.  I  agree  to  your  price 
if  you  win  the  game." 

But  how  immeasurable  was  the  distance  be- 
tween the  shy  consent  to  wear  Yale  blue,  and  the 
pale,  surprised  agreement  to  his  second  proposal ! 
Wayne  experienced  a  strange  sensation  of  per- 
sonal loss. 

While  he  endeavored  to  find  his  tongue,  Miss 
Huling  spoke  to  one  of  the  boys  standing  near^' 
and  he  started  off  on  a  run  for  the  field.  Presently 
Huling  and  the  other  players  broke  for  the  car, 
soon  surrounding  it  in  breathless  anticipation. 

" Wayne,  is  it  straight?  You'll  pitch  for  us 
tomorrow?"  demanded  the  captain,  with  shining 
eyes. 

"Surely  I  will.  Bellville  don't  need  me. 
TheyVe  got  Mackay,  of  Georgetown,"  replied 
Wayne. 

Accustomed  as  he  was  to  being  mobbed  by  en- 
thusiastic students  and  admiring  friends,  Wayne 
could  not  but  feel  extreme  embarrassment  at  the 
reception  accorded  him  now.  He  felt  that  he  was 
sailing  under  false  colors.  The  boys  mauled  him, 
the  girls  fluttered  about  him  with  glad  laughter. 


FALSE   COLOES  185 

He  had  to  tear  himself  away;  and  when  he  finally 
reached  his  hotel,  he  went  to  his  room,  with  his 
mind  in  a  tumult. 

Wayne  cursed  himself  roundly;  then  he  fell  into 
deep  thought.  He  began  to  hope  he  could  retrieve 
the  blunder.  He  would  win  the  game;  he  would 
explain  to  her  the  truth ;  he  would  ask  for  an  op- 
portunity to  prove  he  was  worthy  of  her  friend- 
ship; he  would  not  mention  the  kiss.  This  last 
thought  called  up  the  soft  curve  of  her  red  lips 
and  that  it  was  possible  for  him  to  kiss  her  made 
the  temptation  strong. 

His  sleep  that  night  was  not  peaceful  and 
dreamless.  He  awakened  late,  had  breakfast  sent 
to  his  room,  and  then  took  a  long  walk  out  into 
the  country.  After  lunch  he  dodged  the  crowd  in 
the  hotel  lobby,  and  hurried  upstairs,  where  he 
put  on  his  baseball  suit.  The  first  person  he  met 
upon  going  down  was  Eeed,  the  Bellville  man. 

"What's  this  I  hear,  Wayne,  about  your  pitch- 
ing for  Salisbury  today!  I  got  your  telegram." 

"Straight  goods, "  replied  Wayne. 

"But  I  thought  you  intended  to  pitch  for  us?" 

"I  didn't  promise,  did  I?" 

"No.    Still,  it  looks  fishy  to  me." 

"You've  got  Mackay,  haven't  you?" 

"Yes.  The  truth  is,  I  intended  to  use  you 
both." 

"Well,  I'll  try  to  win  for  Salisbury.  Hope 
there's  no  hard  feeling." 


186       THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

"Not  at  all.  Only  if  I  didn't  have  the  George- 
town crack,  I'd  yell  murder.  As  it  is,  we'll  trim 
Salisbury  anyway." 

"Maybe,"  answered  Wayne,  laughing.  "It's 
a  hot  day,  and  my  arm  feels  good." 

When  Wayne  reached  the  ball  grounds,  he 
thought  he  had  never  seen  a  more  inspiring  sight. 
The  bright  green  oval  was  surrounded  by  a  glit- 
tering mass  of  white  and  blue  and  black.  Out 
along  the  foul  lines  were  carriages,  motors,  and 
tally-hos,  brilliant  with  waving  fans  and  flags. 
Over  the  field  murmured  the  low  hum  of  many 
voices. 

"Here  you  are!"  cried  Huling,  making  a  grab 
for  Wayne.  "Where  were  you  this  morning1? 
We  couldn't  find  you.  Come!  We've  got  a  min- 
ute before  the  practice  whistle  blows,  and  I  prom- 
ised to  exhibit  you." 

He  hustled  Wayne  down  the  first-base  line,  past 
the  cheering  crowd,  out  among  the  motors,  to  the 
same  touring  car  that  he  remembered.  A  bevy  of 
white-gowned  girls  rose  like  a  covey  of  ptarmi- 
gans, and  whirled  flags  of  maroon  and  gray. 

Dorothy  Huling  wore  a  bow  of  Yale  blue  upon 
her  breast,  and  Wayne  saw  it  and  her  face  through 
a  blur. 

"Hurry,  girls;  get  it  over.  We've  got  to  prac- 
tice," said  the  captain. 

In  the  merry  melee  some  one  tied  a  knot  of 
ribbon  upon  Wayne.  Who  it  was  he  did  not  know ; 


FALSE   COLORS  187 

he  saw  only  the  averted  face  of  Dorothy  Hilling. 
And  as  he  returned  to  the  field  with  a  dull  pang, 
he  determined  he  would  make  her  indifference 
disappear  with  the  gladness  of  a  victory  for  her 
team. 

The  practice  was  short,  but  long  enough  for 
"Wayne  to  locate  the  glaring  weakness  of  Salis- 
bury at  shortstop  and  third  base.  In  fact,  most 
of  the  players  of  his  team  showed  rather  poor 
form ;  they  were  overstrained,  and  plainly  lacked 
experience  necessary  for  steadiness  in  an  im- 
portant game. 

Burns,  the  catcher,  however,  gave  Wayne  con- 
fidence. He  was  a  short,  sturdy  youngster,  with 
all  the  earmarks  of  a  coming  star.  Huling,  the 
captain,  handled  himself  well  at  first  base.  The 
Bellville  players  were  more  matured,  and  some  of 
them  were  former  college  cracks.  Wayne  saw 
that  he  had  his  work  cut  out  for  him. 

The  whistle  blew.  The  Bellville  team  trotted 
to  their  position  in  the  field;  the  umpire  called 
play,  and  tossed  a  ball  to  Mackay,  the  long,  lean 
Georgetown  pitcher. 

Wells,  the  first  batter,  fouled  out;  Stamford  hit 
an  easy  bounce  to  the  pitcher,  and  Clews  put  up 
a  little  Texas  leaguer — all  going  out,  one,  two, 
three,  on  three  pitched  balls. 

The  teams  changed  from  bat  to  field.  Wayne 
faced  the  plate  amid  vociferous  cheering.  He 
felt  that  he  could  beat  this  team  even  without  good 


188       THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

support.  He  was  in  the  finest  condition,  and  his 
arm  had  been  resting  for  ten  days.  He  knew  that 
if  he  had  control  of  his  high  inshoot,  these  Bell- 
ville  players  would  feel  the  whiz  of  some  speed 
tinder  their  chins. 

He  struck  Moore  out,  retired  Reed  on  a  measly 
fly,  and  made  Clark  hit  a  weak  grounder  to  sec- 
ond; and  he  walked  in  to  the  bench  assured  of  the 
outcome.  On  some  days  he  had  poor  control ;  on 
others  his  drop  ball  refused  to  work  properly; 
but,  as  luck  would  have  it,  he  had  never  had 
greater  speed  or  accuracy,  or  a  more  bewildering 
fast  curve  than  on  this  day,  when  he  meant  to 
win  a  game  for  a  girl. 

"Boys,  IVe  got  everything, "  he  said  to  his  fel- 
low-players, calling  them  around  him.  1 1 A  couple 
of  runs  will  win  for  us.  Now,  listen,  I  know 
Mackay.  He  hasn  't  any  speed,  or  much  of  a  curve. 
All  he 's  got  is  a  teasing  slow  ball  and  a  foxy  head. 
Don't  be  too  anxious  to  hit.  Make  him  put  'em 
over." 

But  the  Salisbury  players  were  not  proof 
against  the  tempting  slow  balls  that  Mackay  de- 
livered. They  hit  at  wide  curves  far  off  the  plate, 
and  when  they  did  connect  with  the  ball  it  was 
only  to  send  an  easy  chance  to  the  infielders. 

The  game  seesawed  along,  inning  after  inning ; 
it  was  a  pitcher's  battle  that  looked  as  if  the  first 
run  scored  would  win  the  game.  Mackay  toyed 
with  the  Salisbury  boys;  it  was  his  pleasure  to 


FALSE   COLORS  189 

toss  up  twisting,  floating  balls  that  could  scarcely 
be  hit  out  of  the  diamond.  Wayne  had  the  Bell- 
ville  players  utterly  at  his  mercy ;  he  mixed  up  his 
high  jump  and  fast  drop  so  cleverly,  with  his 
sweeping  out-curve,  that  his  opponents  were  un- 
able to  gauge  his  delivery  at  all. 

In  the  first  of  the  seventh,  Barr  for  Bellville 
hit  a  ball  which  the  third  baseman  should  have 
fielded.  But  he  fumbled.  The  second  batter  sent 
a  fly  to  shortstop,  who  muffed  it.  The  third 
hitter  reached  his  base  on  another  error  by  an 
infielder.  Here  the  bases  were  crowded,  and  the 
situation  had  become  critical  all  in  a  moment. 
Wayne  believed  the  infield  would  go  to  pieces,  and 
lose  the  game,  then  and  there,  if  another  hit  went 
to  short  or  third. 

"Steady  up,  boys,"  called  Wayne,  and  beck- 
oned for  his  catcher. 

"Burns,  it's  up  to  you  and  me,"  he  said,  in  a 
low  tone.  "I've  got  to  fan  the  rest  of  these  hit- 
ters. You're  doing  splendidly.  Now,  watch  close 
for  my  drop.  Be  ready  to  go  down  on  your  knees. 
When  I  let  myself  out,  the  ball  generally  hits  the 
ground  just  back  of  the  plate." 

"Speed  'em  over!"  said  Burns,  his  sweaty  face 
grim  and  determined.  "I'll  get  in  front  of  'em." 

The  head  of  the  batting  list  was  up  for  Bell- 
ville, and  the  whole  Bellville  contingent  on  the 
side  lines  rose  and  yelled  and  cheered. 

Moore  was  a  left-handed  hitter,  who  choked  his 


190       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

bat  np  short,  and  poked  at  the  ball.  He  was  a 
good  bunter,  and  swift  on  his  feet.  Wayne  had 
taken  his  measure,  as  he  had  that  of  the  other 
players,  earlier  in  the  game;  and  he  knew  it  was 
good  pitching  to  keep  the  ball  in  close  to  Moore's 
hands,  so  that  if  he  did  hit  it,  the  chances  were 
it  would  not  go  safe. 

Summoning  all  his  strength,  Wayne  took  his 
long  swing  and  shot  the  ball  over  the  inside  cor- 
ner with  terrific  speed. 

One  strike! 

Wayne  knew  it  would  not  do  to  waste  any  balls 
if  he  wished  to  maintain  that  speed,  so  he  put 
the  second  one  in  the  same  place.  Moore  struck 
too  late. 

Two  strikes! 

Then  Burns  signed  for  the  last  drop.  Wayne 
delivered  it  with  trepidation,  for  it  was  a  hard 
curve  to  handle.  Moore  fell  all  over  himself  try- 
ing to  hit  it.  Little  Burns  dropped  to  his  knees 
to  block  the  vicious  curve.  It  struck  the  ground, 
and,  glancing,  boomed  deep  on  the  breast  pro- 
tector. 

How  the  Salisbury  supporters  roared  their  ap- 
proval !  One  man  out — the  bases  full — with  Reed, 
the  slugging  captain,  at  bat ! 

If  Reed  had  a  weakness,  Wayne  had  not  dis- 
covered it  yet,  although  Reed  had  not  hit  safely. 
The  captain  stood  somewhat  back  from  the  plate, 
a  fact  that  induced  Wayne  to  try  him  with  the 


FALSE   COLORS  191 

speedy  outcurve.  Reed  lunged  with  a  powerful 
swing,  pulling  away  from  the  plate,  and  he  missed 
the  curve  by  a  foot. 

Wayne  did  not  need  to  know  any  more.  Reed 
had  made  his  reputation  slugging  straight  balls 
from  heedless  pitchers.  He  chopped  the  air  twice 
more,  and  flung  his  bat  savagely  to  the  ground. 

"Two  out — play  the  hitter!"  called  Wayne  to 
his  team. 

Clark,  the  third  man  up,  was  the  surest  batter 
on  the  Bellville  team.  He  looked  dangerous.  He 
had  made  the  only  hit  so  far  to  the  credit  of  his 
team.  Wayne  tried  to  work  him  on  a  high,  fast 
ball  close  in.  Clark  swung  freely  and  cracked  a 
ripping  liner  to  left.  Half  the  crowd  roared,  and 
then  groaned,  for  the  beautiful  hit  went  foul  by 
several  yards.  Wayne  wisely  decided  to  risk  all 
on  his  fast  drop.  Clark  missed  the  first,  fouled 
the  second. 

Two  strikes! 

Then  he  waited.  He  cooly  let  one,  two,  three 
of  the  fast  drops  go  by  without  attempting  to  hit 
them.  Burns  valiantly  got  his  body  in  front  of 
them.  These  balls  were  all  over  the  plate,  but  too 
low  to  be  called  strikes.  With  two  strikes,  and 
three  balls,  and  the  bases  full,  Clark  had  the  ad- 
vantage. 

Tight  as  the  place  was,  Wayne  did  not  flinch. 
The  game  depended  practically  upon  the  next  ball 
delivered.  Wayne  craftily  and  daringly  decided 


192       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

to  use  another  fast  drop,  for  of  all  his  assortment 
that  would  be  the  one  least  expected  by  Clark. 
But  it  must  be  started  higher,  so  that  in  case 
Clark  made  no  effort  to  swing,  it  would  still  be  a 
strike. 

Gripping  the  ball  with  a  clinched  hand,  Wayne 
swung  sharply,  and  drove  it  home  with  the  limit 
of  his  power.  It  sped  like  a  bullet,  waist  high, 
and  just  before  reaching  the  plate  darted  down- 
ward, as  if  it  had  glanced  on  an  invisible  barrier. 

Clark  was  fooled  completely  and  struck  futilely. 
But  the  ball  caromed  from  the  hard  ground,  hit 
Burns  with  a  resounding  thud,  and  bounced  away. 
Clark  broke  for  first,  and  Moore  dashed  for  home. 
Like  a  tiger  the  little  catcher  pounced  upon  the 
ball,  and,  leaping  back  into  line,  blocked  the  slid- 
ing Moore  three  feet  from  the  plate. 

Pandemonium  burst  loose  among  the  Salisbury 
adherents.  The  men  bawled,  the  women  screamed, 
the  boys  shrieked,  and  all  waved  their  hats  and 
flags,  and  jumped  up  and  down,  and  manifested 
symptoms  of  baseball  insanity. 

In  the  first  of  the  eighth  inning,  Mackay  sailed 
up  the  balls  like  balloons,  and  disposed  of  three 
batters  on  the  same  old  weak  hits  to  his  clever 
fielders.  In  the  last  of  the  eighth,  Wayne  struck 
out  three  more  Bellville  players. 

11  Burns,  you're  up,"  said  Wayne,  who,  in  his 
earnestness  to  win,  kept  cheering  his  comrades. 
"Do  something.  Get  your  base  any  way  you  can. 


'FALSE   COLORS  193 

Ge^  in  front  of  one.  We  must  score  this  in- 
ning. " 

Faithful,  battered  Burns  cunningly  imposed  his 
hip  over  the  plate  and  received  another  bruise  in 
the  interests  of  his  team.  The  opposing  players 
furiously  stormed  at  the  umpire  for  giving  him 
his  base,  but  Burns'  trick  went  through.  Burnett 
bunted  skilfully,  sending  Burns  to  second.  Cole 
hit  a  fly  to  center.  Then  Huling  singled  between 
short  and  third. 

It  became  necessary  for  the  umpire  to  delay  the 
game  while  he  put  the  madly  leaping  boys  back 
off  the  coaching  lines.  The  shrill,  hilarious  cheer- 
ing gradually  died  out,  and  the  field  settled  into  a 
forced  quiet. 

Wayne  hurried  up  to  the  plate  and  took  his  posi- 
tion. He  had  always  been  a  timely  hitter,  and 
lie  gritted  his  teeth  in  his  resolve  to  settle  this 
game.  Mackay  whirled  his  long  arm,  wheeled, 
took  his  long  stride,  and  pitched  a  slow,  tantaliz- 
ing ball  that  seemed  never  to  get  anywhere.  But 
Wayne  waited,  timed  it  perfectly,  and  met  it 
squarely. 

The  ball  flew  safely  over  short,  and  but  for  a 
fine  sprint  and  stop  by  the  left  fielder,  would  have 
resulted  in  a  triple,  possibly  a  home  run.  As  it 
was,  Burns  and  Huling  scored ;  and  Wayne,  by  a 
slide,  reached  second  base.  When  he  arose  and 
saw  the  disorderly  riot,  and  heard  the  noise  of 
that  well-dressed  audience,  he  had  a  moment  of 


194       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

exultation.  Then  Wells  flew  ont  to  center  ending 
the  chances  for  more  rnns. 

As  Wayne  received  the  ball  in  the  pitcher's  box, 
he  pansed  and  looked  out  across  the  field  toward 
a  white-crowned  motor  car,  and  he  caught  a  gleam 
of  Dorothy  Hilling's  golden  hair,  and  wondered 
if  she  were  glad. 

For  nothing  short  of  the  miraculous  could 
snatch  this  game  from  him  now.  Burns  had  with- 
stood a  severe  pounding,  but  he  would  last  out 
the  inning,  and  Wayne  did  not  take  into  account 
the  rest  of  the  team.  He  opened  up  with  no  slack- 
ening of  his  terrific  speed,  and  he  struck  out  the 
three  remaining  batters  on  eleven  pitched  balls. 
Then  in  the  rising  din  he  ran  for  Burns  and  gave 
him  a  mighty  hug. 

"You  made  the  gamest  stand  of  any  catcher  I 
ever  pitched  to,"  he  said  warmly. 

Burns  looked  at  his  quivering,  puffed,  and 
bleeding  hands,  and  smiled  as  if  to  say  that  this 
was  praise  to  remember,  and  reward  enough. 
Then  the  crowd  swooped  down  on  them,  and  they 
were  swallowed  up  in  the  clamor  and  surge  of 
victory.  When  Wayne  got  out  of  the  thick  and 
press  of  it,  he  made  a  bee  line  for  his  Hotel,  and 
by  running  a  gauntlet  managed  to  escape. 

Besting,  dressing,  and  dining  were  matters 
which  he  went  through  mechanically,  with  his 
mind  ever  on  one  thing.  Later,  he  found  a  dark 
corner  of  the  porch  and  sat  there  waiting,  think- 


FALSE   COLORS  195 

ing.  There  was  to  be  a  dance  given  in  honor  of 
the  team  that  evening  at  the  hotel.  He  watched 
the  boys  and  girls  pass  up  the  steps.  When  the 
music  commenced,  he  arose  and  went  into  the  hall. 
It  was  bright  with  white  gowns,  and  gay  with 
movement. 

"There  he  is.  Grab  him,  somebody,"  yelled 
Huling. 

"Do  something  for  me,  quick,"  implored  "Wayne 
of  the  captain,  as  he  saw  the  young  people  wave 
toward  him. 

"Salisbury  is  yours  tonight,"  replied  Huling. 

"Ask  your  sister  to  save  me  one  dance." 

Then  he  gave  himself  up.  He  took  his  meed  of 
praise  and  flattery,  and  he  withstood  the  battery 
of  arch  eyes  modestly,  as  became  the  winner  of 
many  fields.  But  even  the  reception  after  the 
Princeton  game  paled  in  comparison  with  this 
impromptu  dance. 

She  was  here.  Always  it  seemed,  while  he  lis- 
tened or  talked  or  danced,  his  eyes  were  drawn  to 
a  slender,  graceful  form,  and  a  fair  face  crowned 
with  golden  hair.  Then  he  was  making  his  way 
to  where  she  stood  near  one  of  the  open  windows. 

He  never  knew  what  he  said  to  her,  nor  what 
reply  she  made,  but  she  put  her  arm  in  his,  and 
presently  they  were  gliding  over  the  polished 
floor.  To  Wayne  the  dance  was  a  dream.  He  led 
her  through  the  hall  and  out  upon  the  balcony, 
where  composure  strangely  came  to  him. 


196       THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

"Mr.  Wayne,  I  have  to  thank  yon  for  saving 
the  day  for  us.  Yon  pitched  magnificently." 

"I  would  have  broken  my  arm  to  win  that 
game,"  burst  out  Wayne.  "Miss  Hnling,  I  made 
a  blunder  yesterday.  I  thought  there  was  a  con- 
spiracy to  persuade  me  to  throw  down  Bellville. 
I've  known  of  such  things,  and  I  resented  it. 
You  understand  what  I  thought.  I  humbly  offer 
my  apologies,  and  beg  that  you  forget  the  rude 
obligation  I  forced  upon  you." 

How  cold  she  was!  How  unattainable  in  that 
moment !  He  caught  his  breath,  and  rushed  on. 

"Your  brother  and  the  management  of  the  club 
have  asked  me  to  pitch  for  Salisbury  the  remainder 
of  the  season.  I  shall  be  happy  to — if " 

"If  what?"  She  was  all  alive  now,  flushing 
warmly,  dark  eyes  alight,  the  girl  of  his  dreams. 

"If  you  will  forgive  me — if  you  will  let  me  be 
your  friend — if — Miss  Holing,  you  will  again  wear 
that  bit  of  Yale  blue." 

"If,  Mr.  Wayne,  you  had  very  sharp  eyes  you 
would  have  noticed  that  I  still  wear  it!" 


THE   MANAGER   OF   MADDEN 'S   HILL 

WILLIE  HOWARTH  loved  baseball.  He  loved  it 
all  the  more  because  he  was  a  cripple.  The  game 
was  more  beautiful  and  wonderful  to  him  because 
he  would  never  be  able  to  play  it.  For  Willie 
had  been  born  with  one  leg  shorter  than  the  other ; 
he  could  not  run  and  at  11  years  of  age  it  was 
all  he  could  do  to  walk  with  a  crutch. 

Nevertheless  Willie  knew  more  about  baseball 
than  any  other  boy  on  Madden 's  Hill.  An  uncle 
of  his  had  once  been  a  ballplayer  and  he  had 
taught  Willie  the  fine  points  of  the  game.  And 
this  uncle's  ballplayer  friends,  who  occasionally 
visited  him,  had  imparted  to  Willie  the  vernacular 
of  the  game.  So  that  Willie's  knowledge  of  play- 
ers and  play,  and  particularly  of  the  strange  talk, 
the  wild  and  whirling  words  on  the  lips  of  the  real 
baseball  men,  made  him  the  envy  of  every  boy  on 
Madden  ?s  Hill,  and  a  mine  of  information.  Willie 
never  missed  attending  the  games  played  on  the 
lots,  and  he  could  tell  why  they  were  won  or  lost. 
197 


198       THE   BEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

Willie  suffered  considerable  pain,  mostly  at 
night,  and  this  had  given  him  a  habit  of  lying 
awake  in  the  dark  hours,  grieving  over  that 
crooked  leg  that  forever  shut  him  ont  of  the  herit- 
age of  youth.  He  had  kept  his  secret  well ;  he  was 
accounted  shy  because  he  was  quiet  and  had  never 
been  able  to  mingle  with  the  boys  in  their  activity. 
No  one  except  his  mother  dreamed  of  the  fire  and 
hunger  and  pain  within  his  breast.  His  school- 
mates called  him  "  Daddy. "  It  was  a  name  given 
for  his  bent  shoulders,  his  labored  gait  and  his 
thoughtful  face,  too  old. for  his  years.  And  no 
one,  not  even  his  mother,  guessed  how  that  name 
hurt  Willie. 

It  was  a  source  of  growing  unhappiness  with 
Willie  that  the  Madden 's  Hill  boys  were  always 
beaten  by  the  other  teams  of  the  town.  He  really 
came  to  lose  his  sadness  over  his  own  misfortune 
in  pondering  on  the  wretched  play  of  the  Mad- 
den's  Hill  baseball  club.  He  had  all  a  boy's 
pride  in  the  locality  where  he  lived.  And  when 
the  Bogg's  Farm  team  administered  a  crush- 
ing defeat  to  Madden 's  Hill,  Willie  grew  des- 
perate. 

Monday  he  met  Lane  Griffith,  the  captain  of 
the  Madden 's  Hill  nine. 

" Hello,  Daddy,"  said  Lane.  He  was  a  big, 
aggressive  boy,  and  in  a  way  had  a  fondness  for 
Willie. 

"Lane,  you  got  an  orful  trimmin'  up  on  the 


THE  MANAGER  OF  MADDEN 'S  HILL    199 

B  oggs.  What  'd  you  wanter  let  them  country  jakes 
beat  you  for?" 

"Aw,  Daddy,  they  was  lucky.  Umpire  had  hay- 
seed in  his  eyes!  Robbed  us!  He  couldn't  see 
straight.  We'll  trim  them  down  here  Saturday." 

* '  No,  you  won 't — not  without  team  work.  Lane, 
you've  got  to  have  a  manager." 

"Durn  it!  Where 're  we  goin'  to  get  one!" 
Lane  blurted  out. 

"You  can  sign  me.  I  can't  play,  but  I  know  the 
game.  Let  me  coach  the  boys." 

The  idea  seemed  to  strike  Capt.  Griffith  favor- 
ably. He  prevailed  upon  all  the  boys  living  on 
Madden 's  Hill  to  come  out  for  practice  after 
school.  Then  he  presented  them  to  the  manag- 
ing coach.  The  boys  were  inclined  to  poke  fun  at 
Daddy  Howarth  and  ridicule  him;  but  the  idea 
was  a  novel  one  and  they  were  in  such  a  state  of 
subjection  from  many  beatings  that  they  wel- 
comed any  change.  Willie  sat  on  a  bench  impro- 
vised from  a  soap  box  and  put  them  through  a 
drill  of  batting  and  fielding.  The  next  day  in  his 
coaching  he  included  bunting  and  sliding.  He 
played  his  men  in  different  positions  and  for  three 
more  days  he  drove  them  unmercifully. 

When  Saturday  came,  the  day  for  the  game 
with  Bogg's  Farm,  a  wild  protest  went  up  from 
the  boys.  Willie  experienced  his  first  bitterness 
as  a  manager.  Out  of  forty  aspirants  for  the 
Madden 's  Hill  team  he  could  choose  but  nine  to 


200       THE   KEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

play  the  game.  'And  as  a  conscientious  manager 
he  could  use  no  favorites.  "Willie  picked  the  best 
players  and  assigned  them  to  positions  that,  in 
his  judgment,  were  the  best  suited  to  them.  Bob 
Irvine  wanted  to  play  first  base  and  he  was  down 
for  right  field.  Sam  Wickhart  thought  he  was  the 
fastest  fielder,  and  Willie  had  him  slated  to  catch. 
Tom  Lindsay's  feelings  were  hurt  because  he  was 
not  to  play  in  the  infield.  Eddie  Curtis  suffered 
a  fall  in  pride  when  he  discovered  he  was  not  down 
to  play  second  base.  Jake  Thomas,  Tay-Tay 
Mohler  and  Brick  Grace  all  wanted  to  pitch.  The 
manager  had  chosen  Frank  Price  for  that  im- 
portant position,  and  Frank's  one  ambition  was 
to  be  a  shortstop. 

So  there  was  a  'deadlock.  For  a  while  there 
seemed  no  possibility  of  a  game.  Willie  sat  on  the 
bench,  the  center  of  a  crowd  of  discontented, 
quarreling  boys.  Some  were  jealous,  some  were 
outraged,  some  tried  to  pacify  and  persuade  the 
others.  All  were  noisy.  Lane  Griffith  stood  by 
his  manager  and  stoutly  declared  the  players 
should  play  the  positions  to  which  they  had  been 
assigned  or  not  at  all.  And  he  was  entering  into 
a  hot  argument  with  Tom  Lindsay  when  the 
Bogg's  Farm  team  arrogantly  put  in  an  appear- 
ance. 

The  way  that  team  from  the  country  walked  out 
upon  the  field  made  a  great  difference.  The  spirit 
of  Madden 's  Hill  roused  to  battle.  The  game  be- 


THE  MANAGER  OF  MADDEN 'S  HILL    201 

gan  swiftly  and  went  on  wildly.  It  ended  almost 
before  the  Hill  boys  realized  it  had  commenced. 
They  did  not  know  how  they  had  won  but  they 
gave  Daddy  Howarth  credit  for  it.  They  had  a 
bonfire  that  night  to  celebrate  the  victory  and 
they  talked  baseball  until  their  parents  became 
alarmed  and  hunted  them  up. 

Madden *s  Hill  practiced  all  that  next  week  and 
on  Saturday  beat  the  Seventh  Ward  team.  In 
four  more  weeks  they  had  added  half  a  dozen  more 
victories  to  their  record.  Their  reputation  went 
abroad.  They  got  uniforms,  and  baseball  shoes 
with  spikes,  and  bats  and  balls  and  gloves.  They 
got  a  mask,  but  Sam  Wickhart  refused  to  catch 
with  it. 

"Sam,  one  of  these  days  you'll  be  stoppin'  a 
high  inshoot  with  your  eye,"  sagely  remarked 
Daddy  Howarth.  "An*  then  where '11  I  get  a 
catcher  for  the  Natchez  game?" 

Natchez  was  the  one  name  on  the  lips  of  every 
Madden 9s  Hill  boy.  For  Natchez  had  the  great 
team  of  the  town  and,  roused  by  the  growing  re- 
pute of  the  Hill  club,  had  condescended  to  arrange 
a  game.  When  that  game  was  scheduled  for  July 
Fourth  Daddy  Howarth  set  to  driving  his  men. 
Early  and  late  he  had  them  out.  This  manager,  in 
keeping  with  all  other  famous  managers,  believed 
that  batting  was  the  thing  which  won  games.  He 
developed  a  hard-hitting  team.  He  kept  everlast- 
ingly at  them  to  hit  and  run,  hit  and  run. 


202       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

On  the  Saturday  before  the  Fourth,  Madden 's 
Hill  had  a  game  to  play  that  did  not  worry 
Daddy  and  he  left  his  team  in  charge  of  the  cap- 
tain. 

"Fellers,  I'm  goin'  down  to  the  Round  House 
to  see  Natchez  play.  I'll  size  up  their  game," 
said  Daddy. 

When  he  returned  he  was  glad  to  find  that  his 
team  had  won  its  ninth  straight  victory,  but  he 
was  not  communicative  in 'regard  to  the  playing  of 
the  Natchez  club.  He  appeared  more  than  usually 
thoughtful. 

The  Fourth  fell  on  Tuesday.  Daddy  had  the 
boys  out  Monday  and  he  let  them  take  only  a 
short,  sharp  practice.  Then  he  sent  them  home. 
In  his  own  mind,  Daddy  did  not  have  much  hope 
of  beating  Natchez.  He  had  been  greatly  im- 
pressed by  their  playing,  and  one  inning  toward 
the  close  of  the  Bound  House  game  they  had 
astonished  him  with  the  way  they  suddenly  seemed 
to  break  loose  and  deluge  their  opponents  in  a 
flood  of  hits  and  runs.  He  could  not  understand 
this  streak  of  theirs — for  they  did  the  same  thing 
every  time  they  played — and  he  was  too  good  a 
baseball  student  to  call  it  luck. 

He  had  never  wanted  anything  in  his  life,  not 
even  to  have  two  good  legs,  as  much  as  he  wanted 
to  beat  Natchez.  For  the  Madden 's  Hill  boys  had 
come  to  believe  him  infallible.  He  was  their  idol. 
They  imagined  they  had  only  to  hit  and  run,  to 


THE  MANAGER  OF  MADDEN 'S  HILL    203 

fight  and  never  give  up,  and  Daddy  would  make 
them  win.  There  was  not  a  boy  on  the  team  who 
believed  that  Natchez  had  a  chance.  They  had 
grown  proud  and  tenacious  of  their  dearly  won 
reputation.  First  of  all,  Daddy  thought  of  his 
team  and  their  loyalty  to  him ;  then  he  thought  of 
the  glory  lately  come  to  Madden 's  Hill,  and  lastly 
of  what  it  meant  to  him  to  have  risen  from  a  lonely 
watcher  of  the  game — a  cripple  who  could  not  even 
carry  a  bat — to  manager  of  the  famous  Hill  team. 
It  might  go  hard  with  the  boys  to  lose  this  game, 
but  it  would  break  his  heart. 

From  time  out  of  mind  there  had  always  been 
rivalry  between  Madden 's  Hill  and  Natchez.  And 
there  is  no  rivalry  so  bitter  as  that  between  boys. 
So  Daddy,  as  he  lay  awake  at  night  planning  the 
system  of  play  he  wanted  to  use,  left  out  of  all 
account  any  possibility  of  a  peaceful  game.  It 
was  comforting  to  think  that  if  it  came  to  a  fight 
Sam  and  Lane  could  hold  their  own  with  Bo 
Stranathan  and  Slugger  Blandy. 

In  the  managing  of  his  players  Daddy  observed 
strict  discipline.  It  was  no  unusual  thing  for  him 
to  fine  them.  On  practice  days  and  off  the  field 
they  implicitly  obeyed  him.  During  actual  play, 
however,  they  had  evinced  a  tendency  to  jump 
over  the  traces.  It  had  been  his  order  for  them 
not  to  report  at  the  field  Tuesday  until  2  o'clock. 
He  found  it  extremely  difficult  to  curb  his  own 
inclination  to  start  before  the  set  time.  And  only 


204       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

the  stern  duty  of  a  man  to  be  an  example  to  his 
players  kept  Daddy  at  home. 

He  lived  near  the  ball  grounds,  yet  on  this  day, 
as  he  hobbled  along  on  his  crutch,  he  thought  the 
distance  interminably  long,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  weeks  the  old  sickening  resentment  at  his  use- 
less leg  knocked  at  his  heart.  Manfully  Daddy 
refused  admittance  to  that  old  gloomy  visitor. 
He  found  comfort  and  forgetfulness  in  the  thought 
that  no  strong  and  swift-legged  boy  of  his  ac- 
quaintance could  do  what  he  could  do. 

Upon  arriving  at  the  field  Daddy  was  amazed 
to  see  such  a  large  crowd.  It  appeared  that  all 
the  boys  and  girls  in  the  whole  town  were  in  at- 
tendance, and,  besides,  there  was  a  sprinkling  of 
grown-up  people  interspersed  here  and  there 
around  the  diamond.  Applause  greeted  Daddy's 
appearance  and  members  of  his  team  escorted  him 
to  the  soap-box  bench. 

Daddy  cast  a  sharp  eye  over  the  Natchez  play- 
ers practicing  on  the  field.  Bo  Stranathan  had 
out  his  strongest  team.  They  were  not  a  prepos- 
sessing nine.  They  wore  soiled  uniforms  that  did 
not  match  in  cut  or  color.  But  they  pranced  and 
swaggered  and  strutted !  They  were  boastful  and 
boisterous.  It  was  a  trial  for  any  Madden 's  Hill 
boy  just  to  watch  them. 

"Wot  a  swelled  bunch !"  exclaimed  Tom  Lind- 
say. 

:  Fellers,  if  Slugger  Blandy  tries  to  pull  any 


. . 


THE  MANAGER  OF  MADDEN 'S  HILL    205 

stunt  on  me  today  he'll  get  a  swelleder  nut," 
growled  Lane  Griffith. 

"T-t-t-t-t-te-te-tell  him  t-t-t-to  keep  out  of 
m-m-m-my  way  an*  not  b-b-b-b-bl-block  me,"  stut- 
tered Tay-Tay  Mohler. 

"We're  a-goin'  to  skin  'em,"  said  Eddie  Cur- 
tis. 

"Cheese  it,  you  kids,  till  we  git  in  the  game," 
ordered  Daddy.  "Now,  Madden 's  Hill,  hang 
round  an*  listen.  I  had  to  sign  articles  with 
Natchez — had  to  let  them  have  their  umpire.  So 
we're  up  against  it.  But  we'll  hit  this  pitcher 
Muckle  Harris.  He  ain't  got  any  steam.  An'  he 
ain't  got  much  nerve.  Now  every  feller  who  goes 
up  to  bat  wants  to  talk  to  Muck.  Call  him  a  big 
swelled  stiff.  Tell  him  he  can't  break  a  pane  of 
glass — tell  him  he  can't  put  one  over  the  pan — 
tell  him  it  he  does  you'll  slam  it  down  in  the  sand 
bank.  Bluff  the  whole  team.  Keep  scrappy  all 
the  time.  See!  That's  my  game  today.  This 
Natchez  bunch  needs  to  be  gone  after.  Holler  at 
the  umpire.  Act  like  you  want  to  fight." 

Then  Daddy  sent  his  men  out  for  practice. 

"Boss,  enny  ground  rules'?"  inquired  Bo 
Stranathan.  He  was  a  big,  bushy-haired  boy  with 
a  grin  and  protruding  teeth.  "How  many  bases 
on  wild  throws  over  first  base  an'  hits  over  the 
sandbank?" 

"All  you  can  get,"  replied  Daddy,  with  a  mag- 
nanimous wave  of  hand. 


206       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

"Huh!    Lemmee  see  your  ball!" 

Daddy  produced  the  ball  that  he  had  Lane  had 
made  for  the  game. 

1 '  Huh !  Watcher  think  f  We  ain  't  goin '  to  play 
with  no  mush  ball  like  thet,"  protested  Bo.  "We 
play  with  a  hard  ball.  Looka  here!  We'll  trow 
up  the  ball." 

Daddy  remembered  what  he  had  heard  about 
the  singular  generosity  of  the  Natchez  team  to 
supply  the  balls  for  the  games  they  played. 

"We  don't  hev  to  pay  nothin'  fer  them  balls. 
A  man  down  at  the  Round  House  makes  them  for 
us.  They  ain't  no  balls  as  good,"  explained  Bo, 
with  pride. 

However,  as  Bo  did  not  appear  eager  to  pass 
over  the  balls  for  examination  Daddy  simply 
reached  out  and  took  them.  They  were  small,  per- 
fectly round  and  as  hard  as  bullets.  They  had  no 
covers.  The  yarn  had  been  closely  and  tightly 
wrapped  and  then  stitched  over  with  fine  bees- 
waxed thread.  Daddy  fancied  he  detected  a  dif- 
ference in  the  weight  of  the  ball,  but  Bo  took  them 
back  before  Daddy  could  be  sure  of  that  point. 

"You  don't  have  to  fan  about  it.  I  know  a  ball 
when  I  see  one,"  observed  Daddy.  "But  we're 
on  our  own  grounds  an'  we'll  use  our  own  ball. 
Thanks  all  the  same  to  you,  Stranathan." 

"Huh!  All  I  gotta  say  is  we'll  play  with  my 
ball  er  there  won't  be  no  game,"  said  Bo  sud- 
denly. 


THE  MANAGER  OF  MADDEN 'S  HILL    207 

Daddy  shrewdly  eyed  the  Natchez  captain.  Bo 
did  not  look  like  a  fellow  wearing  himself  thin 
from  generosity.  It  struck  Daddy  that  Bo's  habit 
of  supplying  the  ball  for  the  game  might  have 
some  relation  to  the  fact  that  he  always  carried 
along  his  own  umpire.  There  was  a  strange 
feature  about  this  umpire  business  and  it  was  that 
Bo's  man  had  earned  a  reputation  for  being  par- 
ticularly fair.  No  boy  ever  had  any  real  reason 
to  object  to  Umpire  Gale's  decisions.  When  Gale 
umpired  away  from  the  Natchez  grounds  his  close 
decisions  always  favored  the  other  team,  rather 
than  his  own.  It  all  made  Daddy  keen  and 
thoughtful. 

"Stranathan,  up  here  on  Madden 's  Hill  we 
know  how  to  treat  visitors.  We'll  play  with  your 
ball.  .  .  .  Now  keep  your  gang  of  rooters  from 
crowdin'  on  the  diamond." 

"Boss,  it's  your  grounds.  Fire  'em  off  if  they 
don't  suit  you.  .  .  .  Come  on,  let's  git  in  the 
game.  Watcher  want — field  er  bat?" 

"Field,"  replied  Daddy  briefly. 

Billy  Gale  called  "Play,"  and  the  game  began 
with  Slugger  Blandy  at  bat.  The  formidable  way 
in  which  he  swung  his  club  did  not  appear  to  have 
any  effect  on  Frank  Price  or  the  player  back  of 
him.  Frank's  most  successful  pitch  was  a  slow, 
tantalizing  curve,  and  he  used  it.  Blandy  lunged 
at  the  ball,  missed  it  and  grunted. 

"Frank,  you  got  his  alley,"  called  Lane. 


208       THE   REDHEADED    OUTFIELD 

Slugger  fouled  the  next  one  high  in  the  air 
back  of  the  plate.  Sam  Wickhart,  the  stocky 
bowlegged  catcher,  was  a  fiend  for  running  after 
foul  flies,  and  now  he  plunged  into  the  crowd  of 
boys,  knocking  them  right  and  left,  and  he  caught 
the  ball.  Whisner  came  up  and  hit  safely  over 
Griffith,  whereupon  the  Natchez  supporters  began 
to  howl.  Kelly  sent  a  grounder  to  Grace  at  short 
stop.  Daddy's  weak  player  made  a  poor  throw  to 
first  base,  so  the  runner  was  safe.  Then  Bo 
Stranathan  batted  a  stinging  ball  through  the  in- 
field, scoring-  Whisner. 

"Play  the  batter!  Play  the  batter!"  sharply 
called  Daddy  from  the  bench. 

Then  Frank  struck  out  Molloy  and  retired  Dun- 
don  on  an  easy  fly. 

" Fellers,  git  in  the  game  now,"  ordered  Daddy, 
as  his  players  eagerly  trotted  in.  ' '  Say  things  to 
that  Muckle  Harris!  We'll  walk  through  this 
game  like  sand  through  a  sieve." 

Bob  Irvin  ran  to  the  plate  waving  his  bat  at 
Harris. 

' '  Put  one  over,  you  f recklef ace !  I  Ve  been  dyin ' 
fer  this  chanst.  You're  on  Madden 's  Hill  now." 

Muckle  evidently  was  not  the  kind  of  pitcher  to 
stand  coolly  under  such  bantering.  Obviously  he 
was  not  used  to  it.  His  face  grew  red  and  his 
hair  waved  up.  Swinging  hard,  he  threw  the  ball 
straight  at  Bob's  head.  Quick  as  a  cat,  Bob 
dropped  flat. 


THE  MANAGER  OF  MADDEN 'S  HILL    209 

" Never  touched  me!"  he  chirped,  jumping  up 
and  pounding  the  plate  with  his  bat.  "You  could- 
n't hit  a  barn  door.  Come  on.  I'll  paste  one  a 
mile!" 

Bob  did  not  get  an  opportunity  to  hit,  for  Harris 
could  not  locate  the  plate  and  passed  him  to  first 
on  four  balls. 

"Dump  the  first  one,"  whispered  Daddy  in 
Grace's  ear.  Then  he  gave  Bob  a  signal  to  run 
on  the  first  pitch. 

Grace  tried  to  bunt  the  first  ball,  but  he  missed 
it.  His  attempt,  however,  was  so  violent  that  he 
fell  over  in  front  of  the  catcher,  who  could  not 
recover  in  time  to  throw,  and  Bob  got  to  second 
base.  At  this  juncture,  the  Madden 's  Hill  band 
of  loyal  supporters  opened  up  with  a  mingling 
of  shrill  yells  and  whistles  and  jangling  of  tin 
cans  filled  with  pebbles.  Grace  hit  the  next  ball 
into  second  base  and,  while  he  was  being  thrown 
out,  Bob  raced  to  third.  With  Sam  Wickhart  up 
it  looked  good  for  a  score,  and  the  crowd  yelled 
louder.  Sam  was  awkward  yet  efficient,  and  he 
batted  a  long  fly  to  right  field.  The  fielder  muffed 
the  ball.  Bob  scored,  Sam  reached  second  base, 
and  the  crowd  yelled  still  louder.  Then  Lane 
struck  out  and  Mohler  hit  to  shortstop,  retiring 
the  side. 

Natchez  scored  a  run  on  a  hit,  a  base  on  balls, 
and  another  error  by  Grace.  Every  time  a  ball 
went  toward  Grace  at  short  Daddy  groaned.  In 


210       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

their  half  of  the  inning  Madden >s  Hill  made  two 
runs,  increasing  the  score  3  to  2. 

The  Madden 's  Hill  boys  began  to  show  the 
strain  of  such  a  close  contest.  If  Daddy  had 
voiced  aloud  his  fear  it  would  have  been :  "They'll 
blow  up  in  a  minnit!"  Frank  Price  alone  was 
slow  and  cool,  and  he  pitched  in  masterly  style. 
Natchez  could  not  beat  him.  On  the  other  hand, 
Madden 's  Hill  hit  Muck  Harris  hard,  but  superb 
fielding  kept  runners  off  the  bases.  As  Daddy's 
team  became  more  tense  and  excited  Bo  Strana- 
than  's  players  grew  steadier  and  more  arrogantly 
confident.  Daddy  saw  it  with  distress,  and  he 
could  not  realize  just  where  Natchez  had  license 
for  such  confidence.  Daddy  watched  the  game 
with  the  eyes  of  a  hawk. 

As  the  Natchez  players  trooped  in  for  their 
sixth  inning  at  bat.  Daddy  observed  a  marked 
change  in  their  demeanor.  Suddenly  they  seemed 
to  have  been  let  loose;  they  were  like  a  band  of 
Indians.  Daddy  saw  everything.  He  did  not  miss 
seeing  Umpire  Gale  take  a  ball  from  his  pocket 
and  toss  it  to  Frank,  and  Daddy  wondered  if  that 
was  the  ball  which  had  been  in  the  play.  Straight- 
way, however,  he  forgot  that  in  the  interest  of  the 
game. 

Bo  Stranathan  bawled:  "Wull,  Injuns,  hyar's 
were  we  do  'em.  "We  Ve  jest  ben  loafin '  along.  Git 
ready  to  tear  the  air,  you  rooters !" 

Kelly  hit  a  wonderfully  swift  ball  through  the 


THE  MANAGER  OF  MADDEN 'S  HILL    211 

infield.  Bo  batted  out  a  single.  Malloy  got  up 
in  the  way  of  one  of  Frank's  pitches,  and  was 
passed  to  first  base.  Then,  as  the  Natchez  crowd 
opened  up  in  shrill  clamor,  the  impending  disaster 
fell.  Dundon  hit  a  bounder  down  into  the  infield. 
The  ball  appeared  to  be  endowed  with  life.  It 
bounded  low,  then  high  and,  cracking  into  Grace's 
hands,  bounced  out  and  rolled  away.  The  runners 
raced  around  the  bases. 

Pickens  sent  up  a  tremendous  fly,  the  highest 
ever  batted  on  Madden 's  Hill.  It  went  over  Tom 
Lindsay  in  center  field,  and  Tom  ran  and  ran. 
The  ball  went  so  far  up  that  Tom  had  time  to 
cover  the  ground,  but  he  could  not  judge  it.  He 
ran  round  in  a  little  circle,  with  hands  up  in 
bewilderment.  And  when  the  ball  dropped  it  hit 
him  on  the  head  and  bounded  away. 

"Kun,  you  Injun,  run!"  bawled  Bo.  "What'd 
I  tell  you?  We  ain't  got  *em  goin',  oh,  no!  Hit- 
tin'  'em  on  the  head!" 

Bill  dropped  a  slow,  teasing  ball  down  the  third- 
base  line.  Jake  Thomas  ran  desperately  for  it, 
and  the  ball  appeared  to  strike  his  hands  and  run 
up  his  arms  and  caress  his  nose  and  wrap  itself 
round  his  neck  and  then  roll  gently  away.  All  the 
while,  the  Natchez  runners  tore  wildly  about  the 
bases  and  the  Natchez  supporters  screamed  and 
whistled.  Muck  Harris  could  not  bat,  yet  he  hit 
the  first  ball  and  it  shot  like  a  bullet  over  the  in- 
field. Then  Slugger  Blandy  came  to  the  plate. 


212       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

TKe  ball  he  sent  out  knocked  Grace's  leg  from 
under  him  as  if  it  were  a  ten-pin.  Whisner 
popped  a  fly  over  Tay  Tay  Mohler's  head.  Now 
Tay  Tay  was  fat  and  slow,  but  he  was  a  sure 
catch.  He  got  under  the  ball.  It  struck  his  hands 
and  jumped  back  twenty  feet  up  into  the  air.  It 
was  a  strangely  live  ball.  Kelly  again  hit  to 
shortstop,  and  the  ball  appeared  to  start  slow, 
to  gather  speed  with  every  bound  and  at  last  to 
dart  low  and  shoot  between  Grace's  legs. 

"Haw!  Haw!"  roared  Bo.  " They've  got  a 
hole  at  short.  Hit  fer  the  hole,  fellers.  Watch 
me !  Jest  watch  me ! ' ' 

And  he  swung  hard  on  the  first  pitch.  The  ball 
glanced  like  a  streak  straight  at  Grace,  took  a 
vicious  jump,  and  seemed  to  flirt  with  the  infield- 
er's  hands,  only  to  evade  them. 

Malloy  fouled  a  pitch  and  the  ball  hit  Sam  Wick- 
hart  square  over  the  eye.  Sam's  eye  popped  out 
and  assumed  the  proportions  and  color  of  a  huge 
plum. 

* '  Hey ! ' '  yelled  Blandy,  the  rival  catcher.  ' '  Air 
you  ketchin'  with  yer  mug?" 

Sam  would  not  delay  the  game  nor  would  he  don 
the  mask. 

Daddy  sat  hunched  on  his  soap-box,  and,  as  in 
a  hateful  dream,  he  saw  his  famous  team  go  to 
pieces.  He  put  his  hands  over  his  ears  to  shut  out 
some  of  the  uproar.  And  he  watched  that  little 
yarn  ball  fly  and  shoot  and  bound  and  roll  to 


THE  MANAGER  OF  MADDEN  >S  HILL    213 

crush  his  fondest  hopes.  Not  one  of  his  players 
appeared  able  to  hold  it.  And  Grace  had  holes 
in  his  hands  and  legs  and  body.  The  ball  went 
right  through  him.  He  might  as  well  have  been 
so  much  water.  Instead  of  being  a  shortstop  he 
was  simply  a  hole.  After  every  hit  Daddy  saw 
that  ball  more  and  more  as  something  alive.  It 
sported  with  his  infielders.  It  bounded  like  a 
huge  jack-rabbit,  and  went  swifter  and  higher  at 
every  bound.  It  was  here,  there,  everywhere. 

And  it  became  an  infernal  ball.  It  became  en- 
dowed with  a  fiendish  propensity  to  run  up  a 
player's  leg  and  all  about  him,  as  if  trying  to  hide 
in  his  pocket.  Grace's  efforts  to  find  it  were 
heartbreaking  to  watch.  Every  time  it  bounded 
out  to  center  field,  which  was  of  frequent  occur- 
rence, Tom  would  fall  on  it  and  hug  it  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  capture  a  fleeing  squirrel.  Tay 
Tay  Mohler  could  stop  the  ball,  but  that  was  no 
great  credit  to  him,  for  his  hands  took  no  part  in 
the  achievement.  Tay  Tay  was  fat  and  the  ball 
seemed  to  like  him.  It  boomed  into  his  stomach 
and  banged  against  his  stout  legs.  When  Tay  saw 
it  coming  he  dropped  on  his  knees  and  valorously 
sacrificed  his  anatomy  to  the  cause  of  the  game. 

Daddy  tried  not  to  notice  the  scoring  of  runs 
by  his  opponents.  But  he  had  to  see  them  and  he 
had  to  count.  Ten  runs  were  as  ten  blows !  After 
that  each  run  scored  was  like  a  stab  in  his  heart. 
The  play  went  on,  a  terrible  fusilade  of  wicked 


214       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

ground  balls  that  baffled  any  attempt  to  field  them. 
Then,  with  nineteen  runs  scored,  Natchez  ap- 
peared to  tire.  Sam  caught  a  foul  fly,  and  Tay 
Tay,  by  obtruding  his  wide  person  to  the  path  of 
infield  hits,  managed  to  stop  them,  and  throw  out 
the  runners. 

Score— Natchez,  21;  Madden  Hill,  3. 

Daddy's  boys  slouched  and  limped  wearily  in. 

"Wot  kind  of  a  ball's  that?"  panted  Tom,  as 
he  showed  his  head  with  a  bruise  as  large  as  a 
goose-egg. 

< « T-t-t-t-ta-ta-tay-tay-tay-tay ' '  began  Moh- 

ler,  in  great  excitement,  but  as  he  could  not 
finish  what  he  wanted  to  say  no  one  caught 
his  meaning. 

Daddy's  watchful  eye  had  never  left  that  won- 
derful, infernal  little  yarn  ball.  Daddy  was 
crushed  under  defeat,  but  his  baseball  brains  still 
continued  to  work.  He  saw  Umpire  Gale  leisurely 
step  into  the  pitcher's  box,  and  leisurely  pick  up 
the  ball  and  start  to  make  a  motion  to  put  it  in 
his  pocket. 

Suddenly  fire  flashed  all  over  Daddy. 

"Hyar!  Don't  hide  that  ball!"  he  yelled,  in 
his  piercing  tenor. 

He  jumped  up  quickly,  forgetting  his  crutch, 
and  fell  headlong.  Lane  and  Sam  got  him  up- 
right and  handed  the  crutch  to  him.  Daddy  be- 
gan to  hobble  out  to  the  pitcher's  box. 

"Don't  you  hide  that  ball.    See!    I've  got  my 


THE  MANAGER  OF  MADDEN 'S  HILL    215 

eye  on  this  game.  That  ball  was  in  play,  an'  you 
can't  use  the  other. " 

Umpire  Gale  looked  sheepish,  and  his  eyes  did 
not  meet  Daddy's.  Then  Bo  came  trotting  up4 

" What's  wrong,  boss?"  he  asked. 

"Aw,  nuthin'.  Yon 're  tryin'  to  switch  balls  on 
me.  That's  all.  Yon  can't  pnll  off  any  stunts  on 
Madden 's  Hill." 

"Why,  boss,  thet  ball's  all  right.  What  you 
hollerin'  about?" 

"Sure  that  ball's  all  right,"  replied  Daddy. 
"It's  a  fine  ball.  An'  we  want  a  chanst  to  hit  it! 
See!" 

Bo  flared  np  and  tried  to  blnster,  bnt  Daddy  cut; 
him  short. 

"Give  ns  our  innin' — let  us  git  a  whack  at  that 
ball,  or  I'll  run  you  off  Madden 's  Hill." 

Bo  suddenly  looked  a  little  pale  and  sick. 

" Course  youse  can  git  a  whack  at  it,"  he  said, 
in  a  weak  attempt  to  be  natural  and  dignified. 

Daddy  tossed  the  ball  to  Harris,  and  as  he 
hobbled  off  the  field  he  heard  Bo  calling  out  low 
and  cautiously  to  his  players.  Then  Daddy  was 
certain  he  had  discovered  a  trick.  He  called  his 
players  around  him. 

*  *  This  game  ain  't  over  yet.  It  ain  't  any  more  'ri 
begun.  Ill  tell  you  what.  Last  innin  *  Bo's  um- 
pire switched  balls  on  us.  That  ball  was  lively. 
An'  they  tried  to  switch  back  on  me.  But  nix! 
We're  goin'  to  git  a  chanst  to  hit  that  lively  ball. 


216       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

An*  they're  goin*  to  git  a  dose  of  their  own  medi- 
cine. Now,  yon  dead  ones — come  back  to  life! 
Show  me  some  hittin'  an*  runnin'." 

"  Daddy,  yon  mean  they  run  in  a  trick  on  us?" 
demanded  Lane,  with  flashing  eyes. 

" Funny  about  Natchez's  strong  finishes!"  re- 
plied Daddy,  coolly,  as  he  eyed  his  angry  players. 

They  let  ont  a  roar,  and  then  ran  for  the  bats. 

The  crowd,  quick  to  sense  what  was  in  the  air, 
thronged  to  the  diamond  and  manifested  alarm- 
ing signs  of  outbreak. 

Sam  Wickhart  leaped  to  the  plate  and  bandished 
Ms  club. 

"Sam,  let  him  pitch  a  couple,"  called  Daddy 
from  the  bench.  "Mebbe  we'll  git  wise  then." 

Harris  had  pitched  only  twice  when  the  fact 
became  plain  that  he  conld  not  throw  this  ball 
with  the  same  speed  as  the  other.  The  ball  was 
heavier;  besides  Harris  was  also  growing  tired. 
The  next  pitch  Sam  hit  far  ont  over  the  center 
fielder's  head  for  a  home  run.  It  was  a  longer 
hit  than  any  Madden 's  Hill  boy  had  ever  made. 
The  crowd  shrieked  its  delight.  Sam  crossed  the 
plate  and  then  fell  on  the  bench  beside  Daddy. 

"Say!  that  ball  nearly  knocked  the  bat  out  of 
my  hands,"  panted  Sam.  "It  made  the  bat 
spring!" 

"Fellers,  don't  wait,"  ordered  Daddy.  "Don't 
give  the  nmpire  a  chanst  to  roast  us  now.  Slam 
the  first  ball!" 


THE  MANAGER  OF  MADDEN 'S  HILL    217 

The  aggressive  captain  lined  the  ball  at  Bo 
Stranathan.  The  Natchez  shortstop  had  a  fine 
opportunity  to  make  the  catch,  but  he  made  an 
inglorious  muff.  Tay  Tay  hurried  to  bat.  Um- 
pire Gale  called  the  first  pitch  a  strike.  Tay 
slammed  down  his  club.  "T-t-t-t-to-to-twasn't 
.  over, ' '  he  cried.  '  '  T-t-t-tay ' ' 

"Shut  up,"  yelled  Daddy.  "We  want  to  git 
this  game  over  today." 

Tay  Tay  was  fat  and  lie  was  also  strong,  so  that 
when  beef  and  muscle  both  went  hard  against  the 
ball  it  traveled.  It  looked  as  if  it  were  going  a 
mile  straight  up.  All  the  infielders  ran  to  get 
under  it.  They  got  into  a  tangle,  into  which  the 
ball  descended.  No  one  caught  it,  and  thereupon 
the  Natchez  players  began  to  rail  at  one  another. 
Bo  stormed  at  them,  and  they  talked  back  to  him. 
Then  when  Tom  Lindsay  hit  a  little  slow  grounder 
into  the  infield  it  seemed  that  a  just  retribution 
had  overtaken  the  great  Natchez  team. 

Ordinarily  this  grounder  of  Tom's  would  have 
been  easy  for  a  novice  to  field.  But  this  peculiar 
grounder,  after  it  has  hit  the  ground  once,  seemed 
to  wake  up  and  feel  lively.  It  lost  its  leisurely  ac- 
tion and  began  to  have  celerity.  When  it  reached 
Dundon  it  had  the  strange,  jerky  speed  so  char- 
acteristic of  the  grounders  that  had  confused  the 
Madden 's  Hill  team.  Dundon  got  his  hands  on 
the  ball  and  it  would  not  stay  in  them.  When 
finally  he  trapped  it  Tom  had  crossed  first  base 


218       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

and  another  runner  had  scored.  Eddie  Curtis 
cracked  another  at  Bo.  The  Natchez  captain 
dove  for  it,  made  a  good  stop,  bounced  after  the 
rolling  ball,  and  then  threw  to  Kelly  at  first.  The 
ball  knocked  Kelly 's  hands  apart  as  if  they  had 
been  paper.  Jake  Thomas  batted  left  handed  and 
he  swung  hard  on  a  slow  pitch  and  sent  the  ball 
far  into  right  field.  Runners  scored.  Jake's  hit 
was  a  three-bagger.  Then  Frank  Price  hit  up  an 
infield  fly.  Bo  yelled  for  Dundon  to  take  it  and 
Dundon  yelled  for  Harris.  They  were  all  afraid 
to  try  for  it.  It  dropped  safely  while  Jake  ran 
home. 

"With  the  heavy  batters  up  the  excitement  in- 
creased. A  continuous  scream  and  incessant 
rattle  of  tin  cans  made  it  impossible  to  hear  what 
the  umpire  called  out.  But  that  was  not  import- 
ant, for  he  seldom  had  a  chance  to  call  either  ball 
or  strike.  Harris  had  lost  his  speed  and  nearly 
every  ball  he  pitched  was  hit  by  the  Madden 's 
Hill  boys.  Irvine  cracked  one  down  between  short 
and  third.  Bo  and  Pickens  ran  for  it  and  collided 
while  the  ball  jauntily  skipped  out  to  left  field 
and,  deftly  evading  Bell,  went  on  and  on.  Bob 
reached  third.  Grace  hit  another  at  Dundon,  who 
appeared  actually  to  stop  it  four  times  before  he 
could  pick  it  up,  and  then  he  was  too  late.  The 
doughty  bow-legged  Sam,  with  his  huge  black  eye, 
hung  over  the  plate  and  howled  at  Muckle.  In 
the  din  no  one  heard  what  he  said,  but  evidently 


THE  MANAGER  OF  MADDEN 'S  HILL    219 

Muck  divined  it.  For  he  roused  to  the  spirit  of 
a  pitcher  who  would  die  of  shame  if  he  could  not 
fool  a  one-eyed  batter.  But  Sam  swooped  down 
and  upon  the  first  ball  and  drove  it  back  toward 
the  pitcher.  Muck  could  not  get  out  of  the  way 
and  the  ball  made  his  leg  buckle  under  him.  Then 
that  hit  glanced  off  to  begin  a  marvelous  exhibi- 
tion of  high  and  erratic  bounding  about  the  in- 
field. 

Daddy  hunched  over  his  soap-box  bench  and 
hugged  himself.  He  was  farsighted  and  he  saw 
victory.  Again  he  watched  the  queer  antics  of  that 
little  yarn  ball,  but  now  with  different  feelings. 
Every  hit  seemed  to  lift  him  to  the  skies.  He  kept 
silent,  though  every  time  the  ball  fooled  a  Natchez 
player  Daddy  wanted  to  yell.  And  when  it  started 
for  Bo  and,  as  if  in  revenge,  bounded  wickeder  at 
every  bounce  to  skip  off  the  grass  and  make  Bo 
look  ridiculous,  then  Daddy  experienced  the  hap- 
piest moments  of  his  baseball  career.  Every  time 
a  tally  crossed  the  plate  he  would  chalk  it  down 
on  his  soap  box. 

But  when  Madden 's  Hill  scored  the  nineteenth 
run  without  a  player  being  put  out,  then  Daddy 
lost  count.  He  gave  himself  up  to  revel.  He  sat 
motionless  and  silent;  nevertheless  his  whole  in- 
ternal being  was  in  the  state  of  wild  tumult.  It 
was  as  if  he  was  being  rewarded  in  joy  for  all 
the  misery  he  had  suffered  because  he  was  a  crip- 
ple. He  could  never  play  baseball,  but  he  had 


220       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

baseball  brains.  He  had  been  too  wise  for  the 
tricky  Stranathan.  He  was  the  coach  and  man- 
ager and  general  of  the  great  Madden 's  Hill  nine. 
If  ever  he  had  to  lie  awake  at  night  again  he  would 
not  mourn  over  his  lameness ;  he  would  have  some- 
thing to  think  about.  To  him  would  be  given  the 
glory  of  beating  the  invincible  Natchez  team.  So 
Daddy  felt  the  last  bitterness  leave  him.  And  he 
watched  that  strange  little  yarn  ball,  with  its  won- 
derful skips  and  darts  and  curves.  The  longer 
the  game  progressed  and  the  wearier  Harris 
grew,  the  harder  the  Madden 's  Hill  boys  batted 
the  ball  and  the  crazier  it  bounced  at  Bo  and  his 
sick  players.  Finally,  Tay  Tay  Mohler  hit  a  teas- 
ing grounder  down  to  Bo. 

Then  it  was  as  if  the  ball,  realizing  a  climax, 
made  ready  for  a  final  spurt.  "When  Bo  reached 
for  the  ball  it  was  somewhere  else.  Dundon  could 
not  locate  it.  And  Kelly,  rushing  down  to  the 
chase,  fell  all  over  himself  and  his  teammates  try- 
ing to  grasp  the  illusive  ball,  and  all  the  time  Tay 
Tay  was  running.  He  never  stopped.  But  as  he 
was  heavy  and  fat  he  did  not  make  fast  time  on 
the  bases.  Frantically  the  outfielders  ran  in  to 
head  off  the  bouncing  ball,  and  when  they  had  suc- 
ceeded Tay  Tay  had  performed  the  remarkable 
feat  of  making  a  home  run  on  a  ball  batted  into 
the  infield. 

That  broke  Natchez's  spirit.  They  quit.  They 
hurried  for  their  bats.  Only  Bo  remained  behind 


THE  MANAGER  OF  MADDEN'S  HILL    221 

a  moment  to  try  to  get  his  yarn  ball.  But  Sam 
had  pounced  upon  it  and  given  it  safely  to  Daddy. 
Bo  made  one  sullen  demand  for  it. 

' '  Funny  about  them  fast  finishes  of  yours ! ' '  said 
Daddy  scornfully.  "Say!  the  ball's  our'n.  The 
winnin'  team  gits  the  ball.  Go  home  an*  look  up 
the  rules  of  the  game ! ' ' 

Bo  slouched  off  the  field  to  a  shrill  hooting  and 
tin  canning. 

"Fellers,  what  was  the  score f "  asked  Daddy. 

Nobody  knew  the  exact  number  of  runs  made 
by  Madden 's  Hill. 

"Gimme  a  knife,  somebody, "  said  the  manager. 

When  it  had  been  produced  Daddy  laid  down 
the  yarn  ball  and  cut  into  it.  The  blade  entered 
readily  for  a  inch  and  then  stopped.  Daddy  cut 
all  around  the  ball,  and  removed  the  cover  of 
tightly  wrapped  yarn.  Inside  was  a  solid  ball  of 
India  rubber. 

"Say!  it  ain't  so  funny  now — how  that  ball 
bounced,"  remarked  Daddy. 

"Wot  you  think  of  that!"  exclaimed  Tom,  feel- 
ing the  lump  on  his  head. 

"T-t-t-t-t-t-t-ta-tr "began  Tay  Tay  Mohler. 

1 1  Say  it !    Say  it ! "  interrupted  Daddy. 

"  Ta-ta-ta-tr-trimmed  them  wa-wa-wa-wa-with 
their  own  b-b-b-b-b-ba-ba-ball,"  finished  Tay. 


OLD   WELL-WELL 

HE  bought  a  ticket  at  the  25-cent  window,  and 
edging  his  huge  bulk  through  the  turnstile,  labori- 
ously followed  the  noisy  crowd  toward  the  bleach- 
ers. I  could  not  have  been  mistaken.  He  was  Old 
Well- Well,  famous  from  Boston  to  Baltimore  as 
the  greatest  baseball  fan  in  the  East.  His  singular 
yell  had  pealed  into  the  ears  of  five  hundred  thou- 
sand worshippers  of  the  national  game  and  would 
never  be  forgotten. 

At  sight  of  him  I  recalled  a  friend's  baseball 
talk.  "You  remember  Old  Well-Well?  He's  all 
in — dying,  poor  old  fellow!  It  seems  young  Burt, 
whom  the  Phillies  are  trying  out  this  spring,  is 
Old  Well- Well's  nephew  and  protege.  Used  to 
play  on  the  Murray  Hill  team;  a  speedy  young- 
ster. When  the  Philadelphia  team  was  here  last, 
Manager  Crestline  announced  his  intention  to  play 
Burt  in  center  field.  Old  Well-Well  was  too  ill 
to  see  the  lad  get  his  tryout.  He  was  heart-broken 
and  said:  'If  I  could  only  see  one  more  game!'  " 
223 


224       THE   REDHEADED    OUTFIELD 

The  recollection  of  this  random  baseball  gossip 
and  the  fact  that  Philadelphia  was  scheduled  to 
play  New  York  that  very  day,  gave  me  a  sudden  de- 
sire to  see  the  game  with  Old  Well- Well.  I  did  not 
know  him,  but  where  on  earth  were  introductions 
as  superfluous  as  on  the  bleachers  ?  It  was  a  very 
easy  matter  to  catch  up  with  him.  He  walked 
slowly,  leaning  hard  on  a  cane  and  his  wide  shoul- 
ders sagged  as  he  puffed  along.  I  was  about  to 
make  some  pleasant  remark  concerning  the  pros- 
pects of  a  fine  game,  when  the  sight  of  his  face 
shocked  me  and  I  drew  back.  If  ever  I  had  seen 
shadow  of  pain  and  shade  of  death  they  hovered 
darkly  around  Old  Well- Well. 

No  one  accompanied  him;  no  one  geemed  to 
recognize  him.  The  majority  of  that  merry  crowd 
of  boys  and  men  would  have  jumped  up  wild  with 
pleasure  to  hear  his  well-remembered  yell.  Not 
much  longer  than  a  year  before,  I  had  seen  ten 
thousand  fans  rise  as  one  man  and  roar  a  greet- 
ing to  him  that  shook  the  stands.  So  I  was  con- 
fronted by  a  situation  strikingly  calculated  to 
rouse  my  curiosity  and  sympathy. 

He  found  an  end  seat  on  a  row  at  about  the 
middle  of  the  right-field  bleachers  and  I  chose 
one  across  the  aisle  and  somewhat  behind  him. 
No  players  were  yet  in  sight.  The  stands  were 
filling  up  and  streams  of  men  were  filing  into  the 
aisles  of  the  bleachers  and  piling  over  the  benches. 
Old  Well-Well  settled  himself  comfortably  in  his 


OLD   WELL-WELL  225 

seat  and  gazed  about  him  with  animation.  There 
had  come  a  change  to  his  massive  features.  The 
hard  lines  had  softened;  the  patches  of  gray 
were  no  longer  visible;  his  cheeks  were  ruddy; 
something  akin  to  a  smile  shone  on  his  face  as  he 
looked  around,  missing  no  detail  of  the  familiar 
scene. 

During  the  practice  of  the  home  team  Old  Well- 
Well  sat  still  with  his  big  hands  on  his  knees ;  but 
when  the  gong  rang  for  the  Phillies,  he  grew  rest- 
less, squirming  in  his  seat  and  half  rose  several 
times.  I  divined  the  importuning  of  his  old  habit 
to  greet  his  team  with  the  yell  that  had  made  him 
famous.  I  expected  him  to  get  up;  I  waited  for 
it.  Gradually,  however,  he  became  quiet  as  a  man 
governed  by  severe  self-restraint  and  directed  his 
attention  to  the  Philadelphia  center  fielder. 

At  a  glance  I  saw  that  the  player  was  new  to 
me  and  answered  the  newspaper  description  of 
young  Burt.  What  a  lively  looking  athlete !  He 
was  tall,  lithe,  yet  sturdy.  He  did  not  need  to 
chase  more  than  two  fly  balls  to  win  me.  His 
graceful,  fast  style  reminded  me  of  the  great  Curt 
Welch.  Old  Well-Well's  face  wore  a  rapt  ex- 
pression. I  discovered  myself  hoping  Burt  would 
make  good;  wishing  he  would  rip  the  boards  off 
the  fence;  praying  he  would  break  up  the  game. 

It  was  Saturday,  and  by  the  time  the  gong 
sounded  for  the  game  to  begin  the  grand  stand 
and  bleachers  were  packed.  The  scene  was  glit- 


226       THE   EEDHEADED    OUTFIELD 

tering,  colorful,  a  delight  to  the  eye.  Around  the 
circle  of  bright  faces  rippled  a  low,  merry  mur- 
mur. The  umpire,  grotesquely  padded  in  front 
by  his  chest  protector,  announced  the  batteries, 
dusted  the  plate,  and  throwing  out  a  white  ball, 
sang  the  open  sesame  of  the  game:  "Play!" 

Then  Old  Well- Well  arose  as  if  pushed  from  his 
seat  by  some  strong  propelling  force.  It  had  been 
his  wont  always  when  play  was  ordered  or  in  a 
moment  of  silent  suspense,  or  a  lull  in  the  ap- 
plause, or  a  dramatic  pause  when  hearts  beat  high 
and  lips  were  mute,  to  bawl  out  over  the  listening, 
waiting  multitude  his  terrific  blast:  "Well- Well- 
Well!" 

Twice  he  opened  his  mouth,  gurgled  and 
choked,  and  then  resumed  his  seat  with  a  very 
red,  agitated  face;  something  had  deterred  him 
from  his  purpose,  or  he  had  been  physically  in- 
capable of  yelling. 

The  game  opened  with  White's  sharp  bounder 
to  the  infield.  Wesley  had  three  strikes  called  on 
him,  and  Kelly  fouled  out  to  third  base.  The 
Phillies  did  no  better,  being  retired  in  one,  two, 
three  order.  The  second  inning  was  short  and  no 
tallies  were  chalked  up.  Brain  hit  safely  in  the 
third  and  went  to  second  on  a  sacrifice.  The 
bleachers  began  to  stamp  and  cheer.  He  reached 
third  on  an  infield  hit  that  the  Philadelphia  short- 
stop knocked  down  but  could  not  cover  in  time 
to  catch  either  runner.  The  cheer  in  the  grand 


OLD   WELL-WELE  227 

stand  was  drowned  by  the  roar  in  the  bleachers. 
Brain  scored  on  a  fly-ball  to  left.  A  double  along 
the  right  foul  line  brought  the  second  runner 
home.  Following  that  the  next  batter  went  out 
on  strikes. 

In  the  Philadelphia  half  of  the  inning  young 
Burt  was  the  first  man  up.  He  stood  left-handed 
at  the  plate  and  looked  formidable.  Duveen,  the 
wary  old  pitcher  for  New  York,  to  whom  this  new 
player  was  an  unknown  quantity,  eyed  his  easy 
position  as  if  reckoning  on  a  possible  weakness. 
Then  he  took  his  swing  and  threw  the  ball.  Burt 
never  moved  a  muscle  and  the  umpire  called  strike. 
The  next  was  a  ball,  the  next  a  strike ;  still  Burt 
had  not  moved. 

"Somebody  wake  him  up!"  yelled  a  wag  in  fhe 
bleachers.  "  He 's  from  Slumbertown,  all  right,  all 
right!"  shouted  another. 

Duveen  sent  up  another  ball,  high  and  swift. 
Burt  hit  straight  over  the  first  baseman,  a  line 
drive  that  struck  the  front  of  the  right-field 
bleachers. 

"Peacherino!"  howled  a  fan. 

Here  the  promise  of  Burt's  speed  was  fulfilled. 
Run!  He  was  fleet  as  a  deer.  He  cut  through 
first  like  the  wind,  settled  to  a  driving  stride, 
rounded  second,  and  by  a  good,  long  slide  beat 
the  throw  in  to  third.  The  crowd,  who  went  to 
games  to  see  long  hits  and  daring  runs,  gave 
a  generous  hand-clapping. 


228       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

Old  Well- Well  appeared  on  the  verge  of  apo- 
plexy. His  ruddy  face  turned  purple,  then  black ; 
he  rose  in  his  seat;  he  gave  vent  to  smothered 
gasps;  then  he  straightened  up  and  clutched  his 
hands  into  his  knees. 

Burt  scored  his  run  on  a  hit  to  deep  short,  an 
infielder's  choice,  with  the  chances  against  retir- 
ing a  runner  at  the  plate.  Philadelphia  could  not 
tally  again  that  inning.  New  York  blanked  in  the 
first  of  the  next.  For  their  opponents,  an  error, 
a  close  decision  at  second  favoring  the  runner, 
and  a  single  to  right  tied  the  score.  Bell  of  New 
York  got  a  clean  hit  in  the  opening  of  the  fifth. 
With  no  one  out  and  chances  for  a  run,  the  im- 
patient fans  let  loose.  Four  subway  trains  in  col- 
lision would  not  have  equalled  the  yell  and  stamp 
in  the  bleachers.  Maloney  was  next  to  bat  and 
he  essayed  a  bunt.  This  the  fans  derided  with 
hoots  and  hisses.  No  team  work,  no  inside  ball 
for  them. 

"Hit  it  out!"  yelled  a  hundred  in  unison. 

"Home  run!"  screamed  a  worshipper  of  long 
hits. 

As  if  actuated  by  the  sentiments  of  his  admirers 
Maloney  lined  the  ball  over  short.  It  looked  good 
for  a  double;  it  certainly  would  advance  Bell  to 
third;  maybe  home.  But  no  one  calculated  on 
Burt.  His  fleetness  enabled  him  to  head  the 
bounding  ball.  He  picked  it  up  cleanly,  and  check- 
ing his  headlong  run,  threw  toward  third  base. 


OLD   WELL-WEL£  229 

Bell  was  half  way  there.  The  ball  sKot  straight 
and  low  with  terrific  force  and  beat  the  runner  to 
the  bag. 

"What  a  great  arm!"  I  exclaimed,  deep  in  my 
throat.  "It's  the  lad's  day!  He  can't  be 
stopped." 

The  keen  newsboy  sitting  below  us  broke  the 
amazed  silence  in  the  bleachers. 

"Wot  d'ye  tink  o>  that?" 

Old  Well- Well  writhed  in  his  seat.  To  him  if 
was  a  one-man  game,  as  it  had  come  to  be  for  me. 
I  thrilled  with  him;  I  gloried  in  the  making  good 
of  his  protege ;  it  got  to  be  an  effort  on  my  part 
to  look  at  the  old  man,  so  keenly  did  his  emotion 
communicate  itself  to  me. 

The  game  went  on,  a  close,  exciting,  brilliantly 
fought  battle.  Both  pitchers  were  at  their  best. 
The  batters  batted  out  long  flies,  low  liners,  and 
sharp  grounders;  the  fielders  fielded  these  diffi- 
cult chances  without  misplay.  Opportunities  came 
for  runs,  but  no  runs  were  scored  for  several 
innings.  Hopes  were  raised  to  the  highest  pitch" 
only  to  be  dashed  astonishingly  away.  The  crowd 
in  the  grand  stand  swayed  to  every  pitched  ball ; 
the  bleachers  tossed  like  surf  in  a  storm. 

To  start  the  eighth,  Stranathan  of  New  York 
tripled  along  the  left  foul  line.  Thunder  burst 
from  the  fans  and  rolled  swellingly  around  the 
field.  Before  the  Hoarse  yelling,  the  shrill  hoot- 
ing, the  hollow  stamping  had  ceased  Stranathan 


232       THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

forward  in  a  waiting  silent  gloom  of  fear.  Burt 
knocked  the  dirt  out  of  his  spikes  and  faced  Du- 
veen.  The  second  ball  pitched  he  met  fairly  and 
it  rang  like  a  bell. 

No  one  in  the  stands  saw  where  it  went.  Bnt 
they  heard  the  crack,  saw  the  New  York  shortstop 
stagger  and  then  pounce  forward  to  pick  np  the 
ball  and  speed  it  toward  the  plate.  The  catcher 
was  qnick  to  tag  the  incoming  runner,  and  then 
snap  the  ball  to  first  base,  completing  a  double 
play. 

When  the  crowd  fully  grasped  this,  which  was 
after  an  instant  of  bewilderment,  a  hoarse  crash- 
ing roar  rolled  out  across  the  field  to  bellow  back 
in  loud  echo  from  Coogan's  Bluff.  The  grand 
stand  resembled  a  colored  corn  field  waving  in  a 
violent  wind;  the  bleachers  lost  all  semblance  of 
anything.  Frenzied,  flinging  action — wild  chaos 
— shrieking  cries — manifested  sheer  insanity  of 
joy. 

When  the  noise  subsided,  one  fan,  evidently 
a  little  longer- winded  than  his  comrades,  cried  out 
hysterically : 

"0-h!  I  don't  care  what  becomes  of  me — 
now-w!" 

Score  tied,  three  to  three,  game  must  go  ten 
innings — that  was  the  shibboleth;  that  was  the 
overmastering  truth.  The  game  did  go  ten  in- 
nings— eleven — twelve,  every  one  marked  by  mas- 
terly pitching,  full  of  magnificent  catches,  stops 


OLD   WELL-WELL  233 

and  throws,  replete  with  reckless  base-running 
and  slides  like  flashes  in  the  dust.  But  they  were 
unproductive  of  runs.  Three  to  three !  Thirteen 
innings ! 

"Unlucky  thirteenth,"  wailed  a  superstitious 
fan. 

I  had  got  down  to  plugging,  and  for  the  first 
time,  not  for  my  home  team.  I  wanted  Philadel- 
phia to  win,  because  Burt  was  on  the  team.  With 
Old  Well- Well  sitting  there  so  rigid  in  his  seat, 
so  obsessed  by  the  playing  of  the  lad,  I  turned 
traitor  to  New  York. 

White  cut  a  high  twisting  bounder  inside  the 
third  base,  and  before  the  ball  could  be  returned 
he  stood  safely  on  second.  The  fans  howled  with 
what  husky  voice  they  had  left.  The  second  hitter 
batted  a  tremendously  high  fly  toward  center  field. 
Burt  wheeled  with  the  crack  of  the  ball  and  raced 
for  the  ropes.  Onward  the  ball  soared  like  a  sail- 
ing swallow;  the  fleet  fielder  ran  with  his  back  to 
the  stands.  What  an  age  that  ball  stayed  in  the 
air !  Then  it  lost  its  speed,  gracefully  curved  and 
began  to  fall.  Burt  lunged  forward  and  upwards ; 
the  ball  lit  in  his  hands  and  stuck  there  as  he 
plunged  over  the  ropes  into  the  crowd.  White 
had  leisurely  trotted  half  way  to  third ;  he  saw  the 
catch,  ran  back  to  touch  second  and  then  easily 
made  third  on  the  throw-in.  The  applause  that 
greeted  Burt  proved  the  splendid  spirit  of  the 
game.  Bell  placed  a  safe  little  hit  over  short, 


234       THE   EEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

scoring  "White.  Heaving,  bobbing  bleachers — 
wild,  broken,  roar  on  roar ! 

Score  four  to  three — only  one  half  inning  left 
for  Philadelphia  to  play — how  the  fans  rooted  for 
another  run !  A  swift  double-play,  however,  ended 
the  inning. 

Philadelphia's  first  hitter  had  three  strikes 
called  on  him. 

"Asleep  at  the  switch  I"  yelled  a  delighted  fan. 

The  next  batter  went  out  on  a  weak  pop-up  fly 
to  second. 

"Nothin'  to  it!" 

"Oh,  I  hate  to  take  this  money!" 

"All-lo-over!" 

Two  men  at  least  of  all  that  vast  assemblage 
had  not  given  up  victory  for  Philadelphia.  I  had 
not  dared  to  look  at  Old  Well-Well  for  a  long 
while.  I  dreaded  the  next  portentious  moment. 
I  felt  deep  within  me  something  like  clairvoyant 
force,  an  intangible  belief  fostered  by  hope. 

Magoon,  the  slugger  of  the  Phillies,  slugged 
one  against  the  left  field  bleachers,  but,  being 
heavy  and  slow,  he  could  not  get  beyond  second 
base.  Cless  swung  with  all  his  might  at  the  first 
pitched  ball,  and  instead  of  hitting  it  a  mile  as 
he  had  tried,  he  scratched  a  mean,  slow,  teasing 
grounder  down  the  third  base  line.  It  was  as 
safe  as  if  it  had  been  shot  out  of  a  cannon.  Ma- 
goon  went  to  third. 

The  crowd  suddenly  awoke  to  ominous  possi- 


OLD   WELL-WELL  235 

bilities;  sharp  commands  came  from  the  players' 
bench.  The  Philadelphia  team  were  bowling  and 
hopping  on  the  side  lines,  and  had  to  be  put  down 
by  the  umpire. 

An  inbreathing  silence  fell  upon  stands  and 
field,  quiet,  like  a  lull  before  a  storm. 

When  I  saw  young  Burt  start  for  the  plate  and 
realized  it  was  his  turn  at  bat,  I  jumped  as  if  I 
had  been  shot.  Putting  my  hand  on  Old  Well- 
Well's  shoulder  I  whispered:  "Burt's  at  bat: 
He'll  break  up  this  game!  I  know  he's  going  to 
lose  one!" 

The  old  fellow  did  not  feel  my  touch ;  he  did  not 
hear  my  voice;  he  was  gazing  toward  the  field 
with  an  expression  on  his  face  to  which  no  human 
speech  could  render  justice.  He  knew  what  was 
coming.  It  could  not  be  denied  him  in  that  mo- 
ment. 

How  confidently  young  Burt  stood  up  to  the 
plate!  None  except  a  natural  hitter  could  have 
had  his  position.  He  might  have  been  Wagner 
for  all  he  showed  of  the  tight  suspense  of  that 
crisis.  Yet  there  was  a  tense  alert  poise  to  his 
head  and  shoulders  which  proved  he  was  alive  to 
his  opportunity. 

Duveen  plainly  showed  he  was  tired.  Twice  he 
shook  his  head  to  his  catcher,  as  if  he  did  not 
want  to  pitch  a  certain  kind  of  ball.  He  had  to 
use  extra  motion  to  get  his  old  speed,  and  he  de- 
livered a  high  straight  ball  that  Burt  fouled  over 


236       THE   REDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

the  grand  stand.  The  second  ball  met  a  similar 
fate.  All  the  time  the  crowd  maintained  that 
strange  waiting  silence.  The  umpire  threw  out  a 
glistening  white  ball,  which  Duveen  nibbed  in  the 
dust  and  spat  upon.  Then  he  wound  himself  up 
into  a  knot,  slowly  unwound,  and  swinging  with 
effort,  threw  for  the  plate. 

Burt's  lithe  shoulders  swung  powerfully.  The 
meeting  of  ball  and  bat  fairly  cracked.  The  low 
driving  hit  lined  over  second  a  rising  glittering 
streak,  and  went  far  beyond  the  center  fielder. 

Bleachers  and  stands  uttered  one  short  cry,  al- 
most a  groan,  and  then  stared  at  the  speeding 
runners.  For  an  instant,  approaching  'doom  could 
not  have  been  more  dreaded.  Magoon  scored. 
Cless  was  rounding  second  wKen  the  ball  lit.  If 
Burt  was  running  swiftly  when  he  turned  first  he 
had  only  got  started,  for  then  his  long  sprinter's 
stride  lengthened  and  quickened.  At  second  he 
was  flying;  beyond  second  he  seemed  lo  merge 
into  a  gray  flitting  shadow. 

I  gripped  my  seat  strangling  'the  uproar  within 
me.  "Where  was  the  applause?  The  fans  were 
silent,  choked  as  I  was,  but  from  a  different  cause. 
Cless  crossed  the  plate  with  the  score  that  de- 
feated New  York;  still  the  tension  never  laxed 
until  Burt  beat  the  ball  home  in  as  beautiful  a  run 
as  ever  thrilled  an  audience. 

In  the  bleak  dead  pause  of  amazed  disappoint- 
ment Old  Well-Well  lifted  his  hulking  figure  and 


OLD   WELL-WELL  237 

loome'd,  towered  over  the  bleachers.  His  wide 
shoulders  spread,  his  broad  chest  expanded,  his 
breath  whistled  as  he  drew  it  in.  One  fleeting  in- 
stant his  transfigured  face  shone  with  a  glorions 
light.  Then,  as  he  threw  back  his  head  and 
opened  his  lips,  his  face  turned  purple,  the  muscles 
of  his  cheeks  and  jaw  rippled  and  strung,  the  veins 
on  his  forehead  swelled  into  bulging  ridges.  Even 
the  back  of  his  neck  grew  red. 

"Well !— Well !— Well ! !  I" 

Ear-splitting  stentorian  blast!  For  a  moment 
I  was  deafened.  But  I  heard  the  echo  ringing 
from  the  cliff,  a  pealing  clarion  call,  beautiful  and 
wonderful,  winding  away  in  hollow  reverbera- 
tion, then  breaking  out  anew  from  building  to 
building  in  clear  concatenation. 

A  sea  of  faces  whirled  in  the  direction  of  that 
long  unheard  yell.  Burt  had  stopped  statue-like 
as  if  stricken  in  his  tracks ;  then  he  came  running, 
darting  among  the  spectators  who  had  leaped  the 
fence. 

Old  Well- Well  stood  a  moment  with  slow  glance 
lingering  on  the  tumult  of  emptying  bleachers,  on 
the  moving  mingling  colors  in  the  grand  stand, 
across  the  green  field  to  the  gray-clad  players. 
He  staggered  forward  and  fell. 

Before  I  could  move,  a  noisy  crowd  swarmed 
about  him,  some  solicitous,  many  facetious. 
Young  Burt  leaped  the  fence  and  forced  his  way 
into  the  circle.  Then  they  were  carrying  the  old 


238       THE   BEDHEADED   OUTFIELD 

man  down  to  the  field  and  toward  the  clubhouse. 
I  waited  until  the  bleachers  and  field  were 
empty.  When  I  finally  went  out  there  was  a  crowd 
at  the  gate  surrounding  an  ambulance.  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  Old  Well- Well.  He  lay  white  and 
still,  but  his  eyes  were  open,  smiling  intently. 
Young  Burt  hung  over  him  with  a  pale  and  agi- 
tated face.  Then  a  bell  clanged  and  the  ambu- 
lance clattered  away. 


THE   END 


•ZANE  GREY'S  NOVELS 

Hay  be  had  wharever  books  are  sold.        Aik  for  Gromt  1  Buntap's  list 
;THE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS  ~ 

*    A  New  York  society  girl  buys  a  ranch  which  becomes  the  center  of  frontier  war* 
taw,    Her  loyal  superintendent  rescues  her  when  she  is  captured  by  bandits.    A 

:  surprising  climax  brings  the  story  to  a  delightful  close. 

•THE  RAINBOW  TRAIL 

The  story  of  a  young  clergyman  who  becomes  a  wanderer  in  the  rreat  wettent 

'DESERT  GOUT8* 

!    The  story  describes  the  recent  uprising  along  the  border,  and  ends  with  the  findint 
of  the  gold  which  two  prospectors  had  willed  to  the  girl  who  is  the  story's  heroine 

RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 

A  picturesque  romance  of  Utah  of  some  forty  years  ago  when  Mormon  authority 
ruled.  The  prosecution  of  Jane  Withersteen  is  the  theme.of  the  story. 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN 

This  is  the  record  of  a  trip  which  the  author  took  with  Buffalo  Jones,  known  as  th« 
preserver  of  the  American  bison,  across  the  Arizona  desert  and  of  a  hu»t  in  "Qua 
wonderful  country  of  deep  canons  and  giant  pines." 

THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 


the  second  wife  of  one  of  the  Mormons—  Well,  that's  the  problem  of  this  great  story. 

THE  SHORT  STOP 

The  young  hero,  tiring  of  his  factory  grind,  starts  out  to  win  fame  and  fortune  a* 
a  professional  ball  player.  His  hard  knocks  at  the  start  are  followed  by  such  succesf 
as  clean  sportsmanship,  courage  and  honesty  ought  to  win. 

BETTY  ZANE 

This  story  tells  of  the  bravery  and  heroism  of  Betty,  tht  beautiful  young  sister  o) 
old  Colonel  Zane,  one  of  the  bravest  pioneers. 

THE  LONE  STAR  RANGER 

After  killing  a  man  in  self  defense,  Buck  Duane  becomes  an  outlaw  along  the 
Texas  border.  In  a  camp  on  the  Mexican  side  of  the  river,  he  find*.  a  young  girfheld 
prisoner,  and  in  attempting  to  rescue  her,  brings  down  upon  himself  the  wrath  of  he* 
captors  and  henceforth  is  hunted  on  one  side  by  honest  men,  on  the  other  by  outlaws. 

THE  BORDER  LEGION 

Joan  Randle,  in  a  spirit  of  anger,  sent  Jim  Cleve  out  to  a  lawless  Western  mining 
camp,  to  prove  his  mettle.  Then  realizing  that  she  loved  him  —  she  followed  him  out. 
On  her  way,  she  is  captured  by  a  bandit  band,  and  trouble  begins  when  she  shoots 
Kells,  the  leader  —  and  nurses  him  to  health  again.  Here  enters  another  romance— 
when  Joan,  disguised  as  an  outlaw,  observes  Jim,  in  the  throes  of  dissipation.  A  gold 
Strike,  a  thrilling  robbery—  gambling  and  gun  play  carry  you  along  breathlessly. 

THE   LAST  OF  THE  GREAT  SCOUTS, 
.<  <       By  Helen  Cody  Wetrnore  and  Zane  Grey 

The  Ufe  story  of  Colonel  William  F.  Cody,  "  Buffalo  Bill."  as  told  by  his  sister  and 
.Zane  Grey.  It  begins  with  his  boyhood  ia  Iowa  and  his  first  encounter  with  an  In- 
dian. We  see  **  Bill  "  as  a  pony  express  rider,  then  near  Fort  Sumter  as  Chief  of 
the  Scouts,  and  later  engaged  in  the  most  dangerous  Indian  campaigns.  There  is 
also  a  very  interesting  account  of  the  travels  of  "The  Wrld  West  "  Show.  No  char- 
acter In  public  life  makes  a  stronger  appeal  to  the  imagination  of  America  than 

Buffalo  Bill,"  whose  daring  and  bravery  made  him  famous. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


B.  M.  BOWER'S  NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grosset  and  Dunlap's  list 

CHIP  OF  THE  FLYING  U.    Wherein  the  1  ove  affairs  of  Chip  and 

Delia  Whitman  are  charmingly  and  humorously  told. 
THE  HAPPY  FAMILY.     A  lively  and  amusing  story,  dealing  with 

the  adventures  of  eighteen  jovial,  big  hearted  Montana  cowboys. 
HER  PRAIRIE  KNIGHT.     Describing  a  gay  party  of  Easterners 

who  exchange  a  cottage  at  Newport  for  a  Montana  ranch-house. 
THE  RANGE  DWELLERS.     Spirited  action,  a  range  feud  be- 

two  families,  and  a  Romeo  and  Juliet  courtship  make  this  a  bright, 

jolly  story.  >. 

THE  LURE  OF  THE  DIM  TRAILS.     A  vivid  portrayal  of  the 

experience  of  an  Eastern  author  among  the  cowboys. 
THE  LONESOME  TRAIL.     A  little  branch  of  sage  brush  and  the 

recollection  of  a  pair  of  large  brown  eyes  upset  "Weary"  David- 
son's plans. 
THE  LONG  SHADOW.     A  vigorous  Western  etory,  sparkling  with 

the  free  outdoor  life  of  a  mountain  ranch.    It  is  a  fine  love  story. 
GOOD  INDIAN.     A  stirring  romance  of  life  on  an  Idaho  ranch. 
FLYING  U  RANCH.     Another  delightful  story  about  Chip  and 

his  pals. 
THE  FLYING  U'S  LAST  STAND.     An  amusing  account  of  Chip 

and  the  other  boys  opposing  a  party  of  school  teachers. 
THE  UPHILL  CLIMB.     A  story  of  a  mountain  ranch  and  of  a 
"man's  hard  fight  on  the  uphill  road  to  manliness. 
3'HE  PHANTOM  HERD.     The  title  of  a  moving-picture  staged  in 
.  ""ijew  Mexico  by  the  "Flying  U  "  boys. 
*?TTK  HERITAGE  OF  THE  SIOUX.     The  "  Flying  U  "  boys  stage 

a  feke  bank  robbery  for  film  purposes  which  precedes  a  real  one 
?*  for  lust  of  gold. 

yHETGRINGOS.     A  story  of  love  and  adventure  on  a  ranch  in 
"California. 
STARR _QP  THE  DESERT.     A  New  Mexico  ranch  story  of  mys- 

teiy  and  adventure. 
THE  LOOKOUT  MAN.     A  Northern  California  story  f  ull  of  action, 

excitement  and  tove. %        : 

;pROSSET   &   DuNLAP, PUBLISHERS,  NEW   YORK 

'J  .""—-'* «=-= 


JOHN  FOX<vJR'& 

STORIES  OF  THE  KENTUCKY  MOUNTAINS 

May  He  had  wherever  took*  are  told.      Ask  for  Grosiet  and  Dnnlap's  list 

THE  TRAIL  OF  THE    LONESOME  PINE./ 
Illustrated  by  F.  C.^Yohn.f 

The  "lonesome  pine"  from  which  the*" 
story  takes  its  name  was  a  tall  tree  that 
stood  in  solitary  splendor  on  a  mountain 
top.  The  fame  of  the  pine  lured  a  young 
engineer  through  Kentucky  to  catch  the 
trail,  and  when  he  finally  climbed  to  its 
shelter  he  found  not  only  the  pine  but  the 
foot-prints  of  a  girl.  And  the  girl  proved 
to  be  lovely,  piquant,  and  the  trail  of 
these  girlish  foot-prints  led  the  young 
engineer  a  madder  chase  than  "the  trail 
of  the  lonesome  pine." 


THE  LITTLE  SHEPHERD  OF  KINGDOM 'COME 
illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

This  is  a  story  of  Kentucky,  in  a  settlement  known  as  "King- 
dom Come."  It  is  a  life  rude,  semi-barbarous;  but  natural 
and  honest,  from  which  often  springs  the  flower  of  civilization. 

«'  Chad."  the  "little  shepherd"  did  not  know  who  he  was  nor 
whence  he  came — he  had  just  wandered  from  door  to  door  since 
early  childhood,  seeking  shelter  with  kindly  mountaineers  who 
gladly  fathered  and  mothered  this  waif  about  whom  there  was 
such  a  mystery — a  charming  waif,  by  the  way,  who  could  play 
the  banjo  better  that  anyone  else  in  the  mountains.  > 

A'KNIGHT  OF  THE    CUMBERLAND.^ 
Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

The  scenes  are  laid  along  the  waters  of  the  Cumberland* 
the  lair  of  moonshiner  and  feudsman.  The  knight  is  a  moon- 
shiner's son,  and  the  heroine  a  beautiful  girl  perversely  chris-i 
tened  "The  Blight."  Two  impetuous  young  Southerners'  fall' 
under  the  spell  of  "The  Blighrs  "  charms  and  she  learns  what 
a  large  part  jealousy  and  pistols  have  in  the  love  making  of  the 
mountaineers. 

Included  in  this  volume  is  "  Hell  fer-Sartain"  and  other 
stories,  some  of  Mr.  Fox's  most  entertaining  Cumberland  valley 
narratives. 

A»"k  for  comtfett  fre*  list  of  G.  &  D.  Popular  Coj>yrigKt*d  Fiction 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


NOVELS  OF  FRONTIER  LIFE  BY 

WILLIAM   MACLEOD   RAINE 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.        Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 

MAVERICKS 

A  tale  of  the  western  frontier,  where  the  "  rustler  "  abounds.    One  of  the  sweetest 
love  stories  ever  told. 

A  TEXAS  RANGER 

How  a  member  of  the  border  police  saved  the  life  of  an  innocent  man,  followed  a 
fugitive  to  Wyoming,  and  then  passed  through  deadly  peril  to  ultimate  happiness. 

WYOMING 

In  this  vivid  story  the  author  brings  out  the  turbid  life  of  the  frontier  with  all  its 
engaging  dash  and  vigor. 

RIDGWAY  OF  MONTANA 

The  «c«ne  is  laid  in  the  mining  centers  of  Montana,  where  politics  and  mining  in- 
dustries are  the  religion  of  the  country. 

BUCKY  O'CONNOR 

Every  chapter  teem*  with  wholesome,  stirring  adventures,  replete  with  the  dashing 
spirit  of  the  border. 
CROOKED  TRAILS  AND  STRAIGHT 

A  story  of  Arizona ;  of  swift-riding  men  and  daring  outlaws ;  of  a  bitter  feud  be- 
tween cattle-men  and  sheep-herders. 
BRAND  BLOTTERS 

A  story  of  the  turbid  life  of  the  frontier  with  a  charming:  love  interest  running 
through  its  page*. 
STEVE  YEAGER 

A  story  brimful  of  excitement,  with  enough  pun-play  and  adventure  to  suit  anyone. 
A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  DONS 

A  Western  story  of  romance  and  adventure,  comprising  a  vivacious  and  stirring 
tale. 
THE  HIGH  GRADER 

A  breezy,  pleasant  and  amusing  love  story  of  Western  mining  life. 
THE  PIRATE  OF  PANAMA 

A  tale  of  old-time  pirates  and  of  modern  love,  hate  and  adventure. 
THE  YUKON  TRAIL 

A  crisply  entertaining  love  story  in  the  land  where  might  makes  right. 
THE  VISTON  SPLENDID 

In  which  two  cousins  are  contestants  for  the  same  prizes ;  political  honors  and  the 
hand  of  a  girl. 

THE   SHERIFF'S  SON 

The  hero  finally  conquers  both  himself  and  his  enemies  and  wins  the  love  of  a 
wonderful  girL 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,          PUBLISHERS,          NEW  YORK 


JACK    LONDON'S    NOVELS 

May  be  had  wtnnver  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 

JOHN  BARLEYCORN.    Illustrated  by  H.  T.  Dunn. 

This  remarkable  book  is  a  record  of  the  author's  own  amazing  ' 
experiences.  This  big,  brawny  world  rover,  who  has  been  ac- 
quainted with  alcohol  from  boyhood,  comes  out  boldly  against  John 
Barleycorn.  It  is  a  string  or  exciting  adventures,  yet  it  forcefully 
conveys  an  unf  orgetable  idea  and  makes  a  typical  Jack  London  book. 
THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MOON.  Frontispiece  by  George  Harper.  . 

The  story  opens  in  the  city  slums  where  Billy  Roberts,  teamster 
and  ex-prize  fighter,  and  Saxon  Brown,  laundry  worker,  meet  and 
love  and  marry.  They  tramp  from  one  end  of  California  to  the 
other,  and  in  the  Valley  of  the  Moon  find  the  farm  paradise  that  is 
to  be  their  salvation. 
BURNING  DAYLIGHT."  Four  illustrations. 

The  story  ot  an  adventurer  who  went  to  Alaska  and  laid  the 
foundations  of  his  fortune  before  the  gold  hunters  arrived.  Bringing 
his  fortunes  to  the  States  he  is  cheated  out  of  it  by  a  crowd  of  money 
kings,  and  recovers  it  only  at  the  muzzle  of  his  gun.  He  then  starts 
out  as  [a  merciless  exploiter  on  his  own  account.  Finally  he  takes  to 
drinking  and  becomes  a  picture  of  degeneration.  About  this  time 
he  falls  in  love  with  his  stenographer  and  wins  her  heart  but  not 
her  hand  and  then  —  but  read  the  story! 
A  SON  OF  THE  SUN.  Illustrated  by  A.  O.  Fischer  and  C.  W.  Ashley. 

David  Grief  was  once  a  light-haired,  blue-eyed  youth  who  came 
from  England  to  the  South  Seas  in  search  of  adventure.  Tanned 
like  a  native  and  as  lithe  as  a  tiger,  he  became  a  real  son  of  the  sun. 
The  life  appealed  to  him  and  he  remained  and  became  very  wealthy. 
THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD.  Illustrations  by  Philip  R.  Goodwin  and 
Charles  Livingston  Bull.  Decorations  by  Charles  E.  Hooper. 

A  book  of  dog  adventures  as   exciting  as  any  man's  exploits 
could  be.    Here  is  excitement  to  stir  the  blood  and  here  is  pictii*. 
esque  color  to  transport  the  reader  to  primitive  scenes. 
THE  SEA  WOLF.    Illustrated  by  W.  J.  Aylward. 

Told  by  a  man  •whom  Fate  suddenly  swings  from  his  fastidious 
life  into  the  power  of  the  brutal  captain  of  a  sealing  schooner.    A 
novel  of  adventure  warmed  by  a  beautiful  love  episode  that  every 
reader  will  hail  with  delight. 
WHITE  FANG.    Illustrated  by  Charles  Livingston  BuIL 


"White  Fang"  is  part  dog,  part  wolf  and  all  brute,  living  in  the 
en  north  ;   he  gradually  comes  under  the  spell  of  man's  com- 

nship,  and  surrenders  all  at  th 

eafter  he  is  man's  loving  slave. 


- 

panionship,  and  surrenders  all  at  the  last  in  a  fight  with  a  bull  dog. 
Ther 


GROSSET  &   DUNLAP,  PUBLISHERS,   NEW 


STORIES  OF  RARE  CHARM  BY 

GENE  STRATTON-PORTER 

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LADDIE. 


Illtistrated  by  Herman  Pfeifer. 

This  is  a  bright,  cheery  tale  with  the 
scenes  laid  in  Indiana.  The  slory  is  told 
by  Little  Sister,  the  youngest  member  of 
a  large  family,  but  it  is  concerned  not  so 
much  with  childish  doings  as  with  the  love 
affairs  of  older  members  of  the  family. 
Chief  among  them  is  that  of  Laddie,  the 
older  brother  whom  Little  Sister  adores, 
and  the  Princess,  an  English  girl  who  has 
come  to  live  in  the  neighborhood  and  about 
•whose  family  there  hangs  a  mystery. 
There  is  a  wedding  midway  in  the  book 
and  a  double  wedding  at  the  close. 
THE  HARVESTER.  Illustrated  by  W.  L.  Jacobs. 

"The  Harvester,"  David  Langston,  is  a  man  of  the  woods  and 
fields,  who  draws  his  living  from  the  prodigal  hand  of  Mother 
Nature  herself.  If  the  book  had  nothing  in  it  but  th«  splendid  figure 
of  this  man  it  would  be  notable.  But  when  the  Girl  comes  to  his 
"Medicine  Woods,"  and  the  Harvester's  whole  being  realizes  that 
this  is  the  highest  point  of  life  which  has  come  to  him— there  begins 
a  romance  of  the  rarest  idyllic  quality. 
FRECKLES.  Decorations  by  E.  Stetson  Crawford. 

Freckles  is  a  nameless  waif  when  the  tale  opens,  but  the  way  in 
wmch  he  takes  hold  of  life;  the  nature  friendships  he  forms  in  the 
great  Limberlost  Swamp;  the  manner  in  which  everyone  who  meets 
him  succumbs  to  the  charm  of  his  engaging  personality;  and  his 
love-story  with  "The  Angel"  are  full  of  real  sentiment. 
A  GIRL  OF  THE  LIMBERLOST. 
Illustrated  by  Wladyslaw  T.  Brenda. 

The  story  of  a  girl  of  the  Michigan  woods;  a  buoyant,  lovable 
type  of  the  self-reliant  American.  Her  philosophy  is  one  of  love  and 
kindness  towards  all  things;  her  hope  is  never  dimmed.  And  by  the 
sheer  beauty  of  her  soul,  and  the  purity  of  her  vision,  she  wins  from 
barren  and  unpromising  surroundings  those  rewards  of  high  courage. 
AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RATNBOW. 
Illustrations  in  colors  by  Oliver  Kemp. 

The  scene  of  this  charming  love  story  is  laid  m  Central  Indiana. 
The  story  is  one  of  devoted  friendship,  and  tender  self-sacrificing 
love.  The  novel  is  brimful  of  the  most  beautiful  word  painting  of 
nature,  and  its  pathos  and  tender  sentiment  will  endear  it  to  all. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,     PUBLISHERS,     NE|W  YORK 


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